


A Poor Man's Sherlock

by Megg33k



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angstward Sex, Blow Jobs, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depressing sex, Fingerfucking, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, M/M, Reunion, Rimming, Suicide Attempt, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-14 14:27:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megg33k/pseuds/Megg33k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a drunken John propositions Mycroft after Sherlock's fall, Mycroft turns him down... until Sherlock asks him to do otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Why do I develop head canon that hurts me? Why do I then impose said head canon on you? Well... the second mostly because of the first... it hurts me, and misery loves company. I don't know what the hell I was thinking with this. I feel like I should apologize, but I'm really not sorry at all.

Mycroft slowly ascended the stairs of 221B Baker Street for the first time in four months, one week, and three days. The last time he was there, a bereft John Watson had rather rudely asked… no… demanded he left. He paused in front of the door before knocking, unsure what he might find. John was no longer answering his texts or calls, and Mrs. Hudson had finally contacted him out of concern. She said he hadn’t left the flat in over a week, and she heard next to no movement overhead. He took a laboured breath and knocked.

“M’not hoooome,” John slurred from the other side of the door.

Mycroft dug out his spare key and let himself in to find the flat’s sole resident sprawled drunkenly on the couch. “Yes, clearly.” He snatched the bottle still loosely gripped in the man’s hand and inspected the contents, or the lack thereof. “You’re drunk.”

“Ooooh… the e’er obsrvnant Hulmesesss.”

“Alarmingly drunk.” Mycroft sighed. “Is this why you haven’t left your flat? Your landlady is concerned.”

“Pisss offfffff.” John flipped on the couch so his back was to Mycroft.

“You’re behaving like a child, John. Come along. You need some proper rest. We’ll discuss this further when you’re sober.” Mycroft caught John’s hand as he tried to wave him away and tugged. “Get up.”

John tumbled off the couch in a heap and looked up at his un-amused visitor. “Whyyy  shh-shhhould I?”

Mycroft pulled him to his feet. “Because a man in your condition should be in bed.”

“Mm…” John stumbled forward and sandwiched Mycroft between his own body and the nearest wall. “I like th’way y’think.” He yanked the expensive silk dangling from Mycroft’s neck and pulled him into a rough kiss.

Mycroft struggled to turn away, overwhelmed by the taste and smell of alcohol. “Stop it, John!” he demanded, pushing the drunken doctor off of him.

“Wha s’wrong? Don’chu like me?”

“Sorry. I got my fill of inebriated and obnoxious years ago when Sherlock was using. I put up with him because he was my brother, but I have no such obligation to you.”

“Shhh-shherlock! This’s alllll hissss fault y’know.”

“Hm. Do tell.” Mycroft dragged John down the hallway and to his room.

“I lo-loved him.” John fell into his bed, with a bit of gentle persuasion. “I ne’er e’en f’cking told ‘im, but I did… ‘nd now he’s dead.”

“Yes, well…” Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “I suspect you’ll regret this conversation in the morning… if you have any recollection of it at all.”

“Y-you r’mind me of ‘im. We shhh-shhhould fuck.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “With such an elegant chat up, how could I possibly say no?”

“Yeeeeah?”

“No. Go to sleep, John. I’ll be back in the morning.”

“Waaaaait.” John lazily tried to grab Mycroft’s hand, but barely grazed it as he exited the room.

Mycroft locked the flat door behind him, gave Mrs. Hudson a commiserating glance, and slid into the back of the car that was waiting for him.

_It’s not good. –MH_

_How not good? –SH_

_Clearly miserable. Nearly killing himself with alcohol. –MH_

_Did he mention me? –SH_

_Yes. Says I remind him of you. He propositioned me because of it. –MH_

_Before you ask, I turned him down. –MH_

_Take care of him. –SH_

_I tucked him in. I’ll check on him in the morning. –MH_

_Not exactly what I had in mind. –SH_

_Pardon? –MH_

_If he propositions you again, take care of him. –SH_

_You’re not thinking clearly. –MH_

_I am. I want him cared for and comforted in whatever way necessary. –SH_

_No. He loves you. He said so. –MH_

_And I him. Give him what he needs. As a favour to me? –SH_

_You’re certain? –MH_

_Yes. –SH_

_Make him as happy you’re able, but tell me only what I ask. –SH_

Mycroft stared at his phone, pondering how difficult the conversation must have been for Sherlock. He knew his younger brother better than either of them liked to admit, but this level of selflessness surprised even Mycroft. After a few less than innocent glances in John’s direction early on, Sherlock had gone so far as forbidding Mycroft from ever pursuing him. How times had changed.

***

The next morning, Mycroft again climbed the staircase toward his not-so-deceased brother’s flat. Their conversation had plagued his mind through the previous evening, but he assured himself it would be a moot point by the morning’s light. John would be sober, and their interactions would be long since forgotten. He knocked quietly and reached for his key, expecting to be ignored yet again.

“It’s open.” John’s voice sounded from just inside.

He slowly turned the knob and swung open the door. John was back on the couch, but upright and holding a cup of tea. A second cup sat on the table near the empty chair John directed him toward with a nod. “Expecting someone?”

“You said you’d be back this morning, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“But you presumed I wouldn’t remember that? Just like you presume I don’t remember how I acted or what I said. Perhaps you even hope I don’t remember. Well, sorry to disappoint.” He motioned toward the empty chair again. “Sit. Please?”

“Ah.” Mycroft straightened his tie and did as instructed. Once seated, he gingerly draped his right leg over his left and clasped his hands in his lap.

“Go on. Say what you came to say.”

Mycroft cleared his throat and took a sip of tea. “I was rather hoping we might discuss treatment plans for you.”

John barked a laugh in response. “I appreciate the concern, but no. I think last night was treatment enough. I’m not looking to repeat that anytime soon.”

“Mm. Yes, I expected you might regret that quite a lot.”

“Quite a lot indeed.” John placed his cup on the table, sat back, and crossed his arms.

“Well, no harm, no foul—”

“I’d rather imagined my proposition to be significantly smoother than it was.”

Mycroft nearly spat out his tea but instead choked on it. “Pardon?”

John leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “You and I…” He appeared to be working himself up to something. “We’re all that’s left of Sherlock. Some might say we were the best of him, but we both know it’s quite the opposite.”

“What exactly are you suggest—”

“Don’t be coy; it doesn’t suit you. I’ve seen the way you look at me. I know you’ve considered it. Even if you hadn’t before, you did after last night.”

“Mm.” Mycroft took another long sip of tea, putting off his inevitable reply. “I can’t entirely deny that.”

“No matter your differences, we’re the two people who loved Sherlock most, the two people most in need of comfort in his absence. Give me one reason we shouldn’t find it together.”

“It’s not healthy, John.” Mycroft set down his cup and stood as if to leave. “You merely see me as a surrogate for him.”

John quickly rose and covered the distance between them. He took Mycroft’s wrist and pressed the palm of an immaculately manicured hand against the front of his trousers. “And I’ll be little more than a hard cock to you. What’s your point?” His voice was something between a growl and a purr. “Yes or no?”

If Mycroft had still been holding his tea, he’d have dropped it. When he tried to answer, he found his voice had betrayed him. A tight nod would have to suffice.

Mere moments later, Mycroft was headed down the same hall with the same man toward the same bedroom for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. The only real difference was that John’s embarrassing level intoxication from the day before had been replaced by Mycroft’s overwhelming sense of guilt. As if shagging the man his brother loved wasn’t enough, it was compounded by how much he intended to enjoy the new arrangement.

John had already pulled off his jumper and dropped it somewhere along the way. He un-tucked his shirt and made quick work of the buttons before shrugging it off, Mycroft watching intently all the while. Next came his belt and finally his trousers, which he stepped out of when they fell the floor. Mycroft’s eyes traced John’s body, stopping and widening when they reached a pair of tight, bright red pants with white piping.

Mycroft’s lips parted, the tip of his tongue gliding pensively between them. “Well, aren’t you just full of surprises?”

John smirked. “You have no idea.” He sank to his knees and slowly unbuckled a hand-crafted Italian leather belt. He released the button and zipper of high quality wool trousers. Mycroft briefly tensed when he saw John carelessly toss them aside, but the hot breath penetrating the thin fabric between John’s mouth and his cock brought him back around.

Mycroft shrugged off his jacket and waistcoat. After a cursory glance at the chest of drawers nearby, he chose to instead drop them at his feet so as to not disrupt the man whose face was nuzzled into his groin. There were few things more important than caring for his wardrobe, but this was one of the exceptions.

John’s hands slid up Mycroft’s thighs and disappeared under obscenely expensive shirt tails. They explored the still cloaked flesh, curious and eager. While one hand found an already rigid nipple to tweak and tease, the other trailed back down and traced the line of Mycroft’s hip bone. It continued its path, smoothing across the front of his pants and slipping between his legs. Rough, slightly calloused fingers massaged Mycroft’s perineum, a warm palm cupping and cradling his bollocks. His cock twitched in response, and John let out a sound that was half chuckle and half moan. Whatever it was, it sounded absolutely filthy.

The silk of Mycroft’s black boxer-briefs was lush against his thighs as John gently tugged them down, exposing his half-hard cock. John’s subtle stubble pricked at the soft skin of Mycroft’s hip as a diagonal line of kisses was placed inward toward his groin. John’s hand circled the base of Mycroft’s growing erection and began to stroke. Mycroft’s head dropped back, his eyes closed.

The tip of John’s tongue teased at Mycroft’s fraenulum before his lips tightened around the shaft. John took in as much of him as he could manage, and for a moment, Mycroft didn’t care if he was the wrong Holmes. He was the receiving Holmes, and that was all that mattered. He threaded his fingers through John’s hair and chanced glancing at him. When John’s blue eyes met his own, he saw nothing but grief. Their eyes locked for only the briefest second, but it was still too much. The speed at which John looked away said even more than the sadness behind his gaze.

“Come along, John.” Mycroft nodded toward the bed, stopping him before he could notice the cock pressed against his tongue beginning to wither without having first been sated.

John rose to his feet and followed. “Are you sure? I mean, I don’t mind—”

“I’m sure. I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, thank you.”

When Mycroft so much as twitched to turn and sit on the bed, John gripped his hips and ground against him. Perhaps he was anxious for more action, but it seemed more likely he was trying only to ensure Mycroft remained facing away from him. It’s hard to picture the man you love when his brother is staring you in the face. Mycroft didn’t argue it and tried to remember sentiment had nothing to do with their arrangement. It wasn’t often he allowed someone close enough to touch him sexually, and there was no reason to ruin a perfectly good shag with something as arbitrary as emotion. He lay prone across the bed, his cheek resting on his forearms, and waited.

The sound of a drawer opening and closing, the force of two strong hands pressing his thighs apart, the wet warmth of a tongue trailing down his cleft and across his anus… those were the things he focused on. Greedy fingers kneaded his arse cheek, and a pointed tongue circled his entrance and darted in and out a few quick times. The soft rustle of fabric suggested John had stripped off his pants, and the dull tip of a dripping glans rubbing between his cheeks confirmed it.

Mycroft pulled his knees up under him and spread them wider, allowing John full access. It would still be several minutes before the bed would sink with John’s weight though. The talented tongue resumed lapping at the puckered flesh, pressing as deep inside as possible, and then it was replaced by two well-slicked fingers. The digits twisted and quirked at all the right angles, teasing at first then making obvious sweeps across Mycroft’s prostate. There were perks to being buggered by a damn good doctor.

Memories of the sadness in John’s eyes faded as Mycroft honed in on sensation alone. He couldn’t help but stiffen under John’s expert touch. A brief lull in contact and the faint tearing of a foil packet let Mycroft anticipating what was next. He’d spent many months thinking about what was about to transpire, though he’d never once gotten the circumstance correct in his fantasies. Still, it was difficult not to be at least a bit excited.

The chill of fresh lube against his skin sent a chill up his spine, but it was quickly replaced by the pleasing pressure of John entering him. It had been months since he’d felt the satisfaction of someone seated inside him, the warmth of a groin pressed flush against his arse. The gratifying slap of skin against skin as John pounded into him was almost as enjoyable as the sensation itself. John’s angle and technique were nothing short of remarkable, and the doctor’s hand snaking around and pulling him off in time with each thrust made for a rather extraordinary experience. Mycroft keened as John meticulously worked him over. He winced against his forearm as the friction on his cock increased, as did the speed of the digits gripping it. Mycroft buried the crown of his head in the mattress and watched as the hand under him moved furiously and deftly.

“Cum for me.” The fingertips of John’s free hand dug into Mycroft’s arse cheek. “Cum for me, Mycroft.”

While Mycroft had done well to hold out until then, the sound of his name on John’s lips pushed him over the edge. He came with a low groan, ejaculate spilling over John’s fist and onto the duvet. He panted through it as he watched the thick white fluid spurt from the end of his cock once, twice, a third time. John milked him until he was empty.

Mycroft pressed his cheek to his forearm once again, his chest heaving, and focused on the hard prick still pumping away inside of him, possessing him. Two hands now gripped his hips, and the thrusts were coming quicker, more erratic. John was starting to lose control.

“Nnng… fuck… yes…” Based on a cursory glance over Mycroft’s shoulder, John’s eyes were screwed tightly shut, his teeth clenched. “God… jeezus… fuck…” He was clearly lost in whatever picture he’d concocted in his head. “Fuck… I’m gonna…”

“Mm… Yes, John. Good.”

“Sh… fuck… sh…”

Mycroft obeyed the command.

“Mmmmfff… sh… oh, god… sh…”

Rolling his hips with John’s undulations, Mycroft remained silent.

John came with a strained scream. “Sh… fuck… yes… Sherloooock.”

Mycroft’s chest tightened as John slumped against his back. He’d been too distracted by his lover’s pleasant keening to realize ‘sh’ was less of a command and more of an aborted word. It was more painful than he had expected it would be.

John withdrew quickly, the look on his face suggesting he was horrified at his blunder. “Fuck. Mycroft… I’m sorry… I—”

“No need to explain, John.” Mycroft rolled onto his back and propped himself up on his elbows. “I knew what this was going in. Perhaps it was unnecessarily crude, but hardly something worth wasting an apology. Don’t give it another thought.” He hid his emotions well, despite being so unaccustomed to having such feelings.

“Yeah, but… I never meant—”

“What’s done is done. A bloody good shag is still a bloody good shag.” Mycroft forced a requisite smirk. “I hate to run, but I’m a busy man.” He quickly dressed and headed for the door. He checked his phone on the way out.

_Did you do it? –SH_

_Are you doing it? –SH_

_Have you done it? –SH_

He shook his head, exasperated, before responding.

_Yes, yes, and yes. –MH_

“Ta, John!” Mycroft called on his way out the door. He passed DI Lestrade on the staircase as he was leaving. “Fair warning, Detective Inspector… Now’s not really a good time. Perhaps you should come back later.”

“I was just popping over to check on John. Mrs. Hudson called a few days ago. Is he alright?”

“Oh, yes. He seemed to be.” Mycroft’s lips curled into a grin. “I just don’t think he’s interested in entertaining guests at the moment. I believe he mentioned something about a nap.”

“Yeah, sure.” Greg nodded. “Are you alright? You seem…” He didn’t finish his sentence.

Mycroft paused. “Fine.” He cleared his throat.

“Fine.” Greg chuckled. “Is that Holmes code for ‘not fine at all’? Your brother used to lie about it too.”

Mycroft didn’t move or speak a single word. He seemed to have lost control over the centers of his brain which controlled all of his fine motor skills.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no. It’s fine, Gregory… May I call you Gregory?”

Greg nodded. “Fine again, eh?” He turned and started to follow Mycroft, who was again descending the stairs, and caught the man’s forearm in his grip.

Mycroft turned and looked at Greg’s hand on his arm before meeting the DI’s eyes. “Excuse me.”

Greg let go but held Mycroft’s gaze. “If you ever want to talk about how fine you are… well… there’s a pub not far from here… and I’m a good listener.

Mycroft gave a jerky nod in reply. “Good day, Gregory.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So what if it's the middle of the night? John barely even knows the meaning of "insensitive."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta on this... I'm not sure how I feel about it, to be honest. I'm constantly concerned I'm screwing it up, but I always secretly hope you enjoy it anyway. <3 Thanks to xspartan09 (my Emily) for listening to me rant and whine!

Mycroft didn’t look back at Greg until he was hidden safely behind the tinted window of his car. He certainly wasn’t hard on the eyes, never had been. It was odd for him to make such an offer, though. Mycroft was certain he’d done well to hide his feelings of discontent, but Greg seemed to see through even his most stellar attempt. He wasn’t sure if he should keep a watchful eye on Greg or just take him up on his offer instead. The buzz of his phone interrupted him before he was able to think on it any further.

_Did he seem comforted? –SH_

_I suppose so. –MH_

_Are you certain? –SH_

_He climaxed, if that’s what you’re getting at. –MH_

_Yes, I suppose it was, even if I suddenly regret obtaining the knowledge. –SH_

_Well, we all have regrets. –MH_

_How do you mean? –SH_

_He seemed to immediately regret calling your name as he climaxed. –MH_

_Oh. –SH_

_It wasn’t my intent to put you through that. –SH_

_I’m certain that’s true. Never mind. It’s fine. –MH_

_Does this mean you won’t be with him again? –SH_

_I don’t suspect he’s interested in a repeat performance. –MH_

_Would you if he was? –SH_

_Would you want me to? –MH_

_Perhaps. –SH_

_Then perhaps. –MH_

_I still don’t expect it will be cause for any future concern. –MH_

Even Mycroft Holmes was wrong on occasion. This was one such occasion. It had been one week and five days since Mycroft had spent the day in John’s bed, and he hadn’t heard a word from him since. His predictions about their encounter being a one-off seemed entirely correct until his phone woke him at two o’clock in the morning. While there was no such thing as ‘off-duty’ for Mycroft, he was sure to insist he only be bothered with the most earth shattering of emergencies after leaving his office for the day. He answered without even cracking his eyelids, almost hoping for a misdial, “Hello?”

“I need you,” the voice on the other end of the line sobbed in reply.

“Who is this? John? Is that you?”

“Yes. Will you come? Please?”

Mycroft rubbed the sleep from his eyes and took a proper look at his clock. “John, it’s the middle of the night. Can’t it wait?”

His response came in the form of incoherent whimpers, gasps for air, and finally the thud of John’s phone presumably hitting the floor.

Considering the state Mycroft had found John in nearly two weeks prior, concern outweighed sense. He wasn’t fond of the influx of sentiment in his life, but no one had asked his opinion on the matter. He snarled to himself as he pulled on his dressing gown. Even if he could be persuaded to leave the comfort of his bed in the middle of the night, he absolutely refused to dress properly.

He was loath to drive himself, but he had little choice given the time of night and the possible nature of what he might find. What he did find upon his arrival was a very dark, very quiet flat. He breezed through to John’s room but, despite the bed being in a state of disarray, it was empty. As he headed toward Sherlock’s room, he shuddered. Even with the knowledge that Sherlock was alive and well, there was no denying his absence from the flat was still discomfiting. The quiet sobs coming from the other side of the door confirmed he was in the right place.

As the door creaked open, John’s head shot up from where he was curled on Sherlock’s bed. The brief glimmer of unabashed hope in his eyes made it clear he hoped Sherlock would be the one standing in the threshold. As Mycroft then watched John’s expression fall, he vaguely realized just how unaccustomed he was to feeling like a disappointment.

“Are you alright?” Mycroft asked, his voice uncustomarily rife with concern.

John shook his head, his nose buried in a wad of cloth. He was visibly upset, and there was something in his positioning and expression that made him look like a scared child. An unsteady hand reached out toward Mycroft.

Mycroft crossed to the bed and took a seat next to John, placing his arm around the trembling doctor’s shoulders. A cursory examination of John’s condition suggested it wasn’t drug related, which was a relief. He didn’t think John was the type, but old habits die hard. “What’s happened?”

John nuzzled into the crook of Mycroft’s neck, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s Sherlock. He’s haunting my dreams.”

“He would.” It wasn’t totally a lie. He probably would if he were able. But it was impossible. The living haunted even less often than the dead.

“I watched him fall again, but then I woke up in his bed. I was alone, but I knew he had been with me. When the door opened, he was there with tea. That’s when I should have known it wasn’t real.”

Mycroft bit back a chuckle. “Yes, I suppose so. Doesn’t sound much like my brother.”

“I came to his room hoping it could somehow be real, and when the door opened —”

“I wasn’t who you were hoping to see.”

John crawled into Mycroft’s lap, straddling his thighs. Their foreheads were pressed together as John shook his head. “That doesn’t mean I wasn’t glad to see you, though.” He was still panting from crying, his cheeks still wet and raw. He placed a shaky kiss on Mycroft’s lips, his arms wrapped around Mycroft’s neck. “Please don’t go.”

Mycroft’s hands snaked up John’s back under the tight black t-shirt covering it, but his attempt to soothe the man was immediately aborted when he felt the deliberate roll of John’s hips. “I’m not going anywhere.” His fingers hooked up and over John’s shoulders, pressing John harder against his own groin.

“Promise. Promise you won’t leave me. Please.” John’s begging sounded significantly more licentious than could be considered decent.

“Okay, John. I promise.”

With naught but a few thin layers of silk and cotton between them, questions of mutual interest were not quite left to the imagination. Mycroft’s dressing gown soon slipped down his arms, as did his freshly unbuttoned pyjama top. He briefly considered whether he even wanted to remove the black cotton so pleasingly hugging John’s chest and abdomen but eventually chose to strip him of it. Bare chest to bare chest, John writhed in Mycroft’s lap, and they further stiffened against one another.

John used Mycroft’s shoulders to push himself to standing. He wobbled as the mattress gave under his feet, but he caught himself, flat-palmed against the wall. Mycroft, never one to let an opportunity pass him by, tugged down John’s pyjama bottoms and pants. John’s erection stared him in the face, and Mycroft couldn’t resist the urge to suck away the considerable drop of pre-cum still forming on the tip of John’s prick. When John didn’t pull back in the slightest, Mycroft accepted the inaction as permission to continue.

Mycroft’s tongue dragged slowly up the underside of John’s shaft before he wrapped his lips around it just below the glans. He slowly pulled his mouth off with a pop before taking John in again, only deeper and with more intent. He could feel his cheeks hollow as he began to suck, and John leaned further into him. The whimper from above sounded like praise.

The muscles in John’s legs contracted and released as he tried to keep himself standing somewhat evenly on the bed, and Mycroft couldn’t resist helping to steady him with a firm hand at the junction of his thigh and arse. As Mycroft’s hand inched its way up between John’s buttocks, he still didn’t flinch. Mycroft hummed his approval against John’s cock and trailed his fingertips across John’s entrance. John’s hips bucked in response, forcing his cock a bit further down Mycroft’s throat, but Mycroft welcomed the sensation. Clearly, he was doing something right.

Mycroft slowly and gently worked a finger into John’s arse and was pleased when John seemed to enjoy it. Soon, he had two fingers buried knuckle deep in John, whilst John repeatedly and rather unashamedly thrust into his mouth. As John’s movements became more erratic and he neared climax, Mycroft was surprised to feel him pull back entirely. He barely had time to give a quizzical glance before John stepped out of the clothing stretched between his calves and dropped down to his knees, straddling Mycroft once again.

John grabbed the mass of fabric he’d been holding when Mycroft found him. “I want you to wear this while you fuck me.”

“Pardon?” Mycroft tried to hide his surprise. He took the article from John and unfurled it. Finding out it was one of Sherlock’s shirts, most likely unwashed since its last wear, was a bit anticlimactic. What did stun Mycroft was John’s request to be penetrated. He hadn’t gotten the impression that would be part of their arrangement, not that he even briefly considered complaining about the new addendum.

“Please. I need this. I need _you_.” John was begging again as he busied himself with the rather rough removal of Mycroft’s pyjamas and pants.

Mycroft slipped the shirt on and left it hanging open. “Fine, but not in here. My brother… he wasn’t... I mean… he won’t have any... supplies.” He found himself flustered, a feeling he considered equally foreign and disconcerting.

“Don’t care.” John’s fist was already encircling Mycroft’s cock and eagerly stroking it.

“Well, perhaps you should. For chrissake, John, you’re a doctor.” Mycroft struggled to hold his composure as well as keep his wits about him.

“That’s right. _I’m_ the doctor.” John pressed his lips to Mycroft’s, his tongue soon filling Mycroft’s mouth. As he pulled back from the kiss, he leaned near Mycroft’s ear and whispered, “My medical degree. My arse. Now, fuck me.”

Mycroft shuddered pleasantly at his words. Someone had to be the responsible adult though, and it clearly wasn’t going to be John. His voice was shaky when he spoke. “I realize you may be new to this, but without any sort of lubrication…” He paused and let out a heavy sigh. “Do you have any concept of how painful it would be?”

“I do.” John met Mycroft’s gaze and held it. “Now make it hurt.” There were equal parts clarity and intensity in his eyes.

It was then Mycroft realized John wasn’t accepting the discomfort as a consequence of getting what he wanted; the pain had been his objective all along. Of course it had. He shrugged and gave a terse nod. “Fine.”

Mycroft’s hand replaced John’s at the base of his cock, and he watched as John rose from his thighs and properly aligned himself. John’s face was buried in Mycroft’s shoulder as he sank down with excruciating slowness. He could feel John wincing against the pain, alternatingly grunting and panting as he forced himself onto Mycroft’s engorged prick with nothing but pre-cum, albeit a rather generous supply, to help facilitate the process. John’s knuckles were white where they gripped Sherlock’s shirt, the same fabric protecting Mycroft’s shoulder from the full force of John’s bite. Finally, with one last strangled whimper, John sat flush in Mycroft’s lap.

It seemed apparent John had gotten what he wanted. Even if Mycroft hadn’t watched John’s struggle, the remarkable tightness enveloping his cock would have served as proof enough. Several long moments of silence stretched between the men as John shook in Mycroft’s arms, Mycroft’s hands soothing up and down his back.

Mycroft’s lips barely grazed the shell of John’s ear when he finally spoke. “You don’t have to do this.”

John’s arms wrapped under Mycroft’s, and his hands hooked over the man’s shoulders as he began rocking his hips. Mycroft groaned loudly in response. He was already close to the edge when John started moving in earnest. It had been at least a decade since he’d had anyone even half as virginal. Unfortunately, if Mycroft let John continue at his own pace, it would be over in mere minutes. He needed to slow things down and avert his attention elsewhere, at least briefly.

Mycroft scooped John up in his arms, turned slightly, and laid him back against the bed. He held one of John’s legs against his own shoulder and shifted his attention to John’s cock, still rock hard and leaking like a sieve.  As he pumped John in his fist, he was both relieved and disheartened to find himself more concerned with John’s orgasm than his own. He wasn’t plagued with performance anxiety or worries of inadequacy, though. He was consumed by thoughts of whether he’d be forced to hear his lover call his brother’s name yet again.

John’s face was nuzzled into the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt, his long, deep breaths suggesting he was breathing in whatever olfactory remnants remained in the garment. The gentle quaking of his body and his quiet mewling indicated he was sobbing once again. Sherlock’s name hardly needed to be said with it already so heavily implied, and Mycroft found it infuriating. The angrier he got, the faster he stroked and the harder and deeper he pounded into John, who would have clearly seen the rage on Mycroft’s face if he’d bothered to look at him. He didn’t.

John let out a wordless, broken cry as he came. Mycroft might not have even noticed if not for the warmth trickling down his fist and the delicious spasm of the already wickedly tight muscles around his cock. What had started as comfort sex had devolved into undeniably harsh thrusts, forged from anger and guilt and maybe even a touch of jealousy. John had asked him to make it hurt, and why shouldn’t he? Even with his prick bollocks deep in the tightest arse he’d had in years, pain was still the most prevalent sensation in his body. _Look at us… a matching pair!_ His vision blew white as animosity and bitterness erupted from his cock, filling John but still not quite leaving his own.

Mycroft withdrew himself and stood, peering down at a thoroughly debauched John Watson. He shrugged off his brother’s shirt and threw it in John’s direction. There was no hiding his discontent now. “You might want to clean yourself up. You don’t want to risk leaking all over Sherlock’s sheets and having to wash them, do you? By now, you simply must be running low on things that still smell of him. I’m afraid that shirt’s probably a loss.”

“I get it. I shouldn’t have asked you to wear it,” John replied, his tone falling somewhere between apologetic and incredulous.

“Nor should you have called me at two o’clock in the morning, but I fail to see what difference that makes at this point.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have called, but you’re the one who came anyway.”

“Mm.” Mycroft gave a smug grin. “I did come, didn’t I?” He collected his sleepwear and dressed quietly.

“Well, you won’t have to worry about any future late night calls or wardrobe requests out of me,” John huffed.

“Good. If you expect this to continue, it’s important that you be reasonab—”

“Continuing? Pfffft…” John rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. He looked like a petulant child. “I just hope you didn’t stretch out his shirt.” He looked Mycroft up and down scathingly. “You clearly don’t share your brother’s… physique.”

Mycroft grinned and nodded. “Too right, John. I’ll just be off, then. Best wishes.” He slammed the door to John’s flat a bit too loudly when he left and silently appreciated his lack of a driver. He slid in behind the steering wheel and just sat for a moment. After a brief flash of panic, he located his phone, which had miraculously stayed in his dressing gown’s pocket, and tapped out a text. He knew it would be hours before he received a reply, but it needed saying and couldn’t wait.

_I won’t compete with a dead man. This can’t happen again. –MH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally started on chapter 3... This thing writes itself! You won't get chapter 3 until after the weekend though, because I have a John/Sherlock/Jack/Ianto foursome to write instead. (Celebrating me breaking the 400 follower mark on Tumblr... YAY!) So, keep an eye out for that, if that's your thing... or you want it to be your thing!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A turning point... maybe?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't quite leave you hanging... not with so much left unsaid at the end of chapter 2. So, I offer you ~1000 meager words to tide you over until I can do a proper chapter some time this coming week. Even if you kind of see where this is headed, I like to think I have at least one or two zigs or zags you might not see coming. Hope this helps hold you over! <3

Sherlock’s text the next morning asking what had happened went unanswered, as did the next several calls from John. Mycroft had promised himself he was done, and truly believed he was. It would be two weeks, three days, and roughly seven hours before he’d betray himself.

Mycroft looked up from his desk, startled when the door to his office was swung violently open by a determined looking John Watson. He stood, anticipating a confrontation.

John kicked the door shut behind him. “Why won’t you answer my calls?”

“Perhaps I was busy. Perhaps I didn’t wish to speak to you. I suppose it’s a mystery.” Mycroft walked to the front of his desk and sat against the edge. “What exactly do you think you’re doing bursting into my office in such a manner?”

John closed at least half the distance between them in surprisingly few steps. “I had to see you.”

“Mm. Had to.”

John looked sad as the tension drained from his face. “I missed you.”

“I missed _you_?” Mycroft repeated him questioningly. “Are you certain you’re not confusing your pronouns, doctor?”

With only a few more steps, John was on Mycroft, his knee pressed between the man’s thighs. “I’m not confused. Do I feel confused?”

The bulge wedged against Mycroft’s thigh was distracting. “You feel—”

“I’ll tell you how I feel.” John’s hand settled just above Mycroft’s arse, tugging him close. “I feel like I’ll burst if I don’t have you right this instant. I feel like bending you over this desk and making you scream my name as you cum. I feel like I’m wasting my time talking when what I really want is to be inside you.”

Mycroft cleared his throat and swallowed thickly. To have someone openly want him was unfamiliar. To see a man outright desperate for him was unheard of. So, with all of his logic and power and confidence and self-control, in spite of it all, he didn’t know how to tell John no, and he didn’t bother trying. Mycroft’s hand moved of its own volition to the base of John’s skull, grasping at sandy blonde hair and guiding John’s lips to his own. At the end of the day, John was still a perfect specimen behind glass, one which Mycroft was never meant to touch, and it made him giddy to break the rules. It was never until after the fact, when it was already too late and the damage already done, that he remembered the glass was there for his protection rather than John’s.

Moments later, Mycroft’s face was pressed to his mahogany desk with his pants ‘round his ankles. The fingertips of John’s right hand dug into Mycroft’s hip, his left hand working furious on Mycroft’s cock. The repeated smack of John’s pelvis against Mycroft’s arse harmonized with the symphony of panting and moans escaping their lips.

“Say it. Please?” John pleaded, his thumb flicking across the sensitive head of Mycroft’s already aching prick, but Mycroft’s pleasant keening remained utterly incoherent. “Please, god, please… I want to hear it. Please say it.” When Mycroft didn’t relent, John slowed and worked two fingers in alongside his cock. He quirked them at just the right angle and… success.

“Nnnnng… John… yes,” Mycroft whined in ragged breaths as he came roughly in John’s hand. He could almost hear John smile in response, withdrawing his fingers and pounding harder.

Only a few minutes later, John’s grip on Mycroft’s hips tightened as his thrusts became chaotic. “Jeezus… fuck… Mycroft… you… are… fucking… perfect,” John panted, each of his words punctuated by a sharp thrust. His praise devolved into loud streams of profanity as he came.

Once they had both re-dressed, Mycroft reclaimed his position, again seated against the edge of the desk. John’s arms were wrapped around him, the Army doctor nuzzling lovingly against his temple. Mycroft’s hands were clasped at the small of John’s back.

“You’re different.” Mycroft hated to interrupt the first truly tender moment they’d had, but he simply had to know. “Why?”

John shrugged and placed a gentle kiss on Mycroft’s lips. “Sometimes a man realizes when he’s wrong.” He held Mycroft’s face in his hands and kissed him again. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. I’ll see you soon, yeah?” He crossed the room toward the door.

Mycroft nodded. “Before you go, just tell me what changed.”

“Crosby, Stills, and Nash.” John called back as he closed the door behind him.

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed as he made his way back to his desk chair, searching his mental archive for any and all references he had to the band. Clearly it was something to do with sentiment. _You Don’t Have to Cry? No. Carry On? No. Helplessly hoping? No._ He drew in a harsh breath as the answer hit him like a sucker punch to the gut, the words playing in his head. _If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with._ With John, apparently even kindness hurt.

There was only one thought on Mycroft's mind. His phone was heavy in his hand, and there was an unfamiliar stinging at the corner of his eyes as he flicked through his contacts. He tried to blink the feeling away as he dialed and listened to the nauseating ringing.

A confused voice answered, “Hello?”

“Gregory? It’s Mycroft. I think I’ll take that drink now.”

“Yeah?” Greg’s grin was audible. “You okay?”

“Perfectly fine.” Mycroft had chosen his words carefully. “Never better. What do you say?”

The joy slipped from Greg’s voice. “Yeah. Be there in ten.”

Mycroft nodded as if Greg might see. “Thanks.” He hung up and rang for his driver.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg go for a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you feel like Mycroft and Greg go a bit OOC at times, it's because they do... and they were meant to. Or, rather, not OOC as much as a side of their characters you might not be used to seeing. There was a lot of awkwardness in writing this, because I felt there was a lot of awkwardness between Mycroft and Greg. Sorry if this isn't how you'd envisioned Mystrade beginning. I just let the characters lead me, and this is where I ended up. Blame them if you don't like it! xD

When his car pulled up to the pub near John’s flat, Mycroft slipped out and shook off the bit of tension he was trying to pretend wasn’t swirling in the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t quite sure why he’d called Greg or what he was supposed to do or say to the man, but the Holmes genes afforded him a great deal of intellect. So, he was sure he would work something out.

Mycroft opened the pub door with a gentle shove and scanned the tables for any sign of Greg. Hearing his own named barked from the far back corner gave him a bit of a start, but he was quickly relieved to see silver locks and a bright smile beckoning him over. He just nearly raised his hand to wave but stopped himself and crossed the room, taking a seat next to Greg. “Ah, there you are.”

“Scared I wouldn’t show?”

“Simply feeling a bit guilty for taking the Yard’s finest away from work for something as trivial as mid-afternoon drinks.”

“Nah, Donovan and Anderson can hold down the fort while I’m out.” Greg took a sip from the beer already sitting in front of him. “I’m sure they’ve got everything under control.”

Mycroft grimaced. “Oh, God help us all.”

Greg tried and failed to bite back a soft chuckle. “Almost ordered you a drink but figured I’d just get it wrong.”

As the waitress approached, Mycroft’s lips twitched into a very slight grin. He nodded toward Greg. “The gentleman will be ordering for me.”

Unsurprisingly, the look on Greg’s face was worth the risk of getting the wrong drink. It was obvious the gears in his mind were working overtime, making decisions and immediately doubting them. “Dry martini,” he finally blurted out. “He’ll have a dry martini.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, an unavoidable glint in his eyes. He meant to look impressed, mostly because he was. “See? There’s a reason you’re the Yard’s best detective. You shouldn’t second guess yourself so frequently.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Oh, that’s not what you’d have ordered. You’re just being nice.”

“Do I really strike you as the sort of man who does anything strictly out of kindness?”

“You’re joking, right?” Greg smirked and crossed his arms at his chest. “I won’t be answering any such questions without my solicitor present.”

“Touché,” Mycroft replied. He watched as their waitress gently set his drink on the table and thanked her before sending her on her way.

“So, are we gonna talk about how perfectly fine everything is? Or are we just gonna sit here and drink like old mates with nothing to say?”

“Can’t a man simply wish to have a drink with a bit of company?”

“Absolutely.” Greg dropped his gaze to the table and flipped the bottle cap from his beer back and forth in his fingers. “You’re not a simple man, though.”

“Mm… observant.”

“Sherlock does— didn’t think so.” Greg sighed. “Sorry… I sometimes forget he’s—”

“It’s fine, I assure you.”

“Cause everything’s fine, right? Even when I accidentally bring up your dead brother?”

“Ah. You’re trying to get a rise out of me, make me talk. Fine. Let’s talk about it, then.” Mycroft quickly downed his drink. “What would you say if I told you he wasn’t really dead, and I’ve been shagging John at his behest?”

Greg’s eyes widened and then narrowed questioningly. “That’s impossible.”

“Which part are you finding more difficult? Sherlock being alive? Or me shagging John? I can assure you they’re both very true.”

“Are you trying to take the piss? Because this isn’t funny.”

“Do I appear to be laughing?”

Greg took a deep swig of his beer, draining what was left of it. “We… I mean… we can’t talk about this… not here.”

Mycroft absently ran his finger around the rim of his empty glass. “Where would you prefer to discuss it?”

“My flat’s not far… unless—”

“I have no objections. Though, if we’re seen leaving together, people may talk.”

“Let ‘em.” Greg simpered. “I can’t have people thinking my ex-wife is the only one who knows how to take a man home from the pub.”

Mycroft’s lips pressed into a tight grin and followed Greg out to the lot. The car ride was silent, and not in a strictly comfortable way. When they reached Greg’s flat, Mycroft cautiously followed him inside. It was quaint.

“Make yourself comfortable.” Greg pointed toward the sofa. “I’ll be there in a second.”

Mycroft took a seat, legs crossed, taking in his surroundings, and waiting patiently… well… awkwardly might be more accurate.

Greg finally emerged from the kitchen, holding a beer for himself and a tumbler which he handed to Mycroft. “I had Bombay, but no vermouth. Sorry.”

“You won’t hear me complaining.” Mycroft took the drink with a grateful smile and studied the man settling next to him on the sofa. He sat closer than Mycroft expected, though not questionably so. More surprisingly, he met Mycroft’s gaze, something which few people did out of intimidation, discomfort, or a combination of the two.

Greg stopped with the mouth of his bottle just millimeters from his lips. He quirked an eyebrow, looking worried. “Have I got something on my face?”

“No, I just—”

“You’re staring.” Greg smiled against the bottle as he took a swig. “Trying to deduce me, Mr. Holmes?”

“Just trying to work out why I’m here.” Mycroft nursed his gin.

“Well, let’s see. You called me out of the blue to accept an offer I made to you almost a month ago, claimed your dead brother isn’t dead, and suggested you’d been shagging John Watson. You’re here because I’d like some sort of an explanation.”

“I did speak rather thoughtlessly.” Mycroft gazed out across the room, searching for anything that wasn’t Greg. “You were trying to get a reaction from me, and I suppose you succeeded to some extent.”

“So, was there any truth to any of it?”

“Every word, which isn’t to say I don’t still regret saying so.” It was strange. Mycroft lied on a daily basis. His lies empowered nations, brought down governments, and had foreign dignitaries eating out of the palm of his hand. He had no to problem lying, but he didn’t want to lie to Greg. “Of course, a great many people, including the two of us, would be in quite a lot of danger if word got out that Sherlock wasn’t really dead.”

“Duly noted. Why would Sherlock ask you to shag John?”

“Aren’t you concerned with why your life could be in danger?”

Greg took another drink of his beer and planted it firmly on the coffee table in front of him. “No reason to. You said it, and I believe you. End of. I’m more interested in why your brother would want you to shag his flat mate.”

“Smart man.” Mycroft meant it, too. Most people couldn’t resist asking stupid, unnecessary questions. “Because he loves him.”

Greg barked a laugh. “That’s not a very good reason. How’d you convince John?”

“It was John’s idea. Sherlock simply wanted him cared for and asked me to oblige.”

“Simply? It doesn’t sound very simple.”

“Well, the request was. It’s the execution that’s been a bit rocky.”

“For how long? And, you and John… are you… in a relationship?”

“Since the day I passed you on his stairs.” Mycroft smiled a sad smile and took a long sip of his drink. “I suppose by the strictest definition we may be. Though, it’s one in which I don’t hear from him unless he’s looking for physical comfort, subsequently have one of the best shags of my life, and then he explains in excruciating detail how I’m not my brother, whom he believes to be dead.”

“Excruciating detail?”

“Never mind that. It’s fine. I know it’s just the grief talking. Grief I could end, if I could only tell him the truth, which I can’t.” Mycroft’s knee was trembling of its own volition, and he focused all of his energy toward stopping it. He swallowed the rest of his gin in one gulp, hoping it might settle his nerves, but to no avail. “Besides, I’d have never been with him if he knew the truth, and he’s at least partially right. The ways in which I’m not my brother are vast.”

Greg stared at Mycroft out of the corner of his eye. “From where I sit, that’s not a bad thing.”

Mycroft scoffed. “Easy to say when you’re not the slightly more intelligent but largely less attractive Holmes.” Perhaps he oughtn’t have had that second drink. It was quite a lot of alcohol, and he didn’t drink often.

“Agree to disagree, I suppose. Why are you telling me all of this?”

“I have no idea.” Mycroft stared into his tumbler, now empty of its previous contents. “Because I can. Because I trust you.” The words felt unnatural and abrasive on his tongue. “Agree to disagree? About what?”

In the space of a breath, Greg’s lips were pressed to his. Mycroft fumbled blindly to set his empty glass on the table in front of him and barely even flinched when it shattered against the floor. Slowly, he wrapped the Detective Inspector up in his arms, threading his fingers into the man’s hair. The tongue pulsing against his own was soft and eager. The hands fisted beneath his jacket, feverishly rubbing up and down his ribcage, were enthusiastic.

Eventually, they broke away, if for no other reason than the necessity of air. “What was that?” Mycroft’s voice was barely a whisper, his breath rebounding off of Greg’s cheek.

“My vehement disagreement of your analysis regarding who is and is not the more attractive Holmes brother. You see, I’ve never wanted to do that to Sherlock. When I’m near you though, I can think of very little else.”

Mycroft was shaking. “I think I broke your glass.”

“Good.”

“Good?” His mouth was still micrometers from Greg’s, their foreheads touching.

“I was already envious of how many times it had touched your lips.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

Greg gently kissed the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. “Then you should hear how I feel about the Bombay.”

Mycroft felt the heat of embarrassment in his cheeks when he realized the inference. “Would you like to retire to the bedroom?”

“What? No.” Greg pulled back, looking almost appalled. “I mean, yes… god, yes… but no.”

“Oh.” Mycroft sounded more surprised than he was comfortable with and dropped his eyes toward the broken shards of glass at his feet. “No, of course not. Sorry.” He briefly considered darting out to his car before he realized he hadn’t brought one.

Greg lifted Mycroft’s chin and captured his gaze. “Good lord, you think it’s because I don’t want you… Well, it’s not. I do. I bloody well do. But not like this… not when you’re so… vulnerable.”

_Vulnerable._ It wasn’t a word Mycroft often heard used to describe him, and he wasn’t anxious for a repeat performance. “I’m fine. I promise.”

“What’s he done to you?”

“What’s who done to me?”

“John. What’s he said?”

“Nothing. It’s just been the occasional passing allusion to my weight, asking me to wear Sherlock’s clothing during sex, he called his name once, but it’s nothing to get upset over.”

“Like hell it’s not. It’s abuse.”

Mycroft sighed a longsuffering sigh. “Please, Gregory, let’s not get melodramatic. I’m certain I’d know if I was being mistreated. I imagine I’d be affected by it, at least in some small way.”

Greg’s eyes popped wide with disbelief. “That’s the thing about your Holmes boys. You’re both so bloody smart that you can’t see the simple things that are crystal clear to everyone else. You have such little understanding of the human condition that you don’t even realize when you’re being abused. And if you truly believe you’re unaffected—”

“I do.”

“No one should be so brilliant and so ignorant all at once.” Greg shook his head. “You and Sherlock need people like me and John… idiots who can recognize and point out when you’re doing something incredibly stupid. John was good for Sherlock, even if he is severely detrimental to you.”

“Careful, detective, you sound jealous,” Mycroft spat back, utterly revolted by Greg’s allegations.

“Jealous? Of your abuser? No. I’d sacrifice even knowing you before I’d bring you pain. Only a fool would insult you with comparisons to your brother, Myc. You’re better than that, and you’re better than… this.”

Mycroft stood and turned away from Greg, unwilling to allow the man to see him emotionally compromised. “Why—” He cleared his throat. “Why did you…” His words fell off.

“Kiss you?” Greg took his wrist turned Mycroft to face him. “Because I wanted to; I had to. Don’t you dare mistake my frustration for disinterest.” He ran his fingers through the ginger locks at Mycroft’s temple, hesitating briefly when Mycroft flinched. “You can say he hasn’t hurt you, but he clearly has. He’s bad for you.”

“I’m a grown man who is quite capable of making his own decisions.” Mycroft’s voice trembled. “And I promised my brother.”

“And if you want me to—” Greg leaned up and placed a tender kiss on Mycroft’s lips. “I’ll be here to pick up the pieces until you start making better decisions.”

Mycroft nodded roughly against Greg’s hand, returning the kiss. “What now?”

“C’mon.” Greg led Mycroft down a hallway and through the door of his bedroom. “Shoes, jacket, and waistcoat off.”

Mycroft obeyed but was perplexed. “I thought you said—”

“I did, and I meant it.” Greg continued leading Mycroft to the bed and laid him down before settling next to him. He put his arm around Mycroft’s shoulders, coaxed Mycroft’s head onto his shoulder. “This is where you rest.”

Mycroft draped his arm across Greg’s chest, his fingers picking at one of the buttons on Greg’s shirt. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“No.” Greg clapped his hand over Mycroft’s and interlaced their fingers. “But what I want is secondary to what you need.” He kissed the crown of Mycroft’s head. “Now, hush and close your eyes.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade finally gets tired of waiting...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some very OOC moments for both Lestrade and Mycroft, but I ask you to remember that the Mycroft you're reading is no longer the Mycroft you've seen on screen. This is a very damaged and vulnerable version of that man, even if he is still very much alive and well (even at the worst of times). But he falters in front of Greg in ways he'd never allow to happen outside the confines of their relationship. And the Greg you're reading is one whose primary concern is Mycroft's well-being. A lot of his natural roughness has been shoved aside in favour of attending to Mycroft's needs. The characters you know are there, and I like to think they still prevail sometimes, but they are significantly altered versions of themselves at times as well. None of this is lost on me, and none of it is accidental. Thanks for reading and taking an interest. I really love writing this story.

Mycroft awoke, warm, content, and still curled into the side of one very attractive Detective Inspector. He breathed in deeply, filling his nostrils with Greg’s cologne and pulling him closer. “Gregory.” He grinned, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

Greg ran a finger back and forth under Mycroft’s collar, gently caressing the nape of his neck. “Sleep well?”

“Better than I have in weeks,” Mycroft admitted, still too groggy to think better of it.

“Maybe it’s my bed,” Greg offered in reply.

“Maybe it’s you.” Mycroft’s forehead creased; he hadn’t meant to say that aloud.

There was a long pause before Greg spoke again. “Can I ask you something?”

Mycroft sighed. “As much as I feel I may later regret this, I suppose so.”

“Why did you lie to me? About Sherlock’s death, I mean.”

“That’s simple.” Mycroft propped himself up on his elbow. “I’d rather see you live with a lie than die for the truth, and it wasn’t just your life at stake.”

“So why tell me now?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Poor judgment. Though, if you keep it strictly to yourself—”

“I will. You can trust me.”

“Then it shouldn’t be a probl—”

Greg leaned up and caught Mycroft’s mouth in a soft kiss. His body was partially on top of Mycroft’s as he laid him back, his knee pressed between Mycroft’s thighs. “This is all I can think about doing when you speak, when I watch your lips move,” he whispered against the kiss.

Mycroft kissed back and reached for Greg’s belt. He fumbled with the buckle until Greg’s hands settled atop his own, stopping him. He pulled back from the kiss. “Oh… sorry… I—”

“Don’t be sorry… just…” Greg looked baffled as he searched for the right words. “Can I not just want to be near you without any ulterior motive?”

“Yes, obviously,” Mycroft lied, albeit poorly. It wasn’t obvious at all. He couldn’t remember a single time in his life when anyone had wanted to be close to him just for the sake of being close to him. There was always a motive, political, sexual, or otherwise. He wasn’t the type of man anyone would refer to as ‘cuddly’ or ‘romantic.’ Sherlock used to call him the ‘Ice Queen,’ and sometimes it felt like the truth.

“You don’t have to lie to me, Mycroft. And you don’t have to take your or my clothes off to keep my attention.”

“No, right. It’s fine. If you don’t want to—”

“That’s not what I said, and you’re going to have to stop saying ‘fine’ when it’s the exact opposite of what you really mean.” Greg’s thumb traced Mycroft’s cheekbone. “I do want to. You’ve no clue how much I want to.”

Mycroft’s mind raced. Was Greg turning him down because he considered him ‘damaged goods’ after the stories about John? He searched Greg’s face for an answer.

“You don’t get it, do you?”

“Of course I—”

“Please don’t lie.”

Mycroft shook his head.

“This isn’t going any further until you realize it doesn’t have to. There’ll be none of that until you can honestly see it’s a perk rather than a prerequisite with me.”

The pleasant tightening in Mycroft’s chest in response to Greg’s words was peculiar. It wasn’t a feeling to which he was the least bit accustomed. Still, he was almost certain he liked it.

***

Over the next couple of months, Mycroft continued to see John on a semi-regular basis. While he sometimes went nearly two weeks without an encounter, the space between some of their trysts had shortened to only three or four days. Right or wrong, Mycroft couldn’t even remember when he’d stopped alerting Sherlock to their activities.

It was strange with John. He’d started being alarmingly kind, and it was almost worse than when he was cruel. It felt fake or forced or… something. His words were textbook perfect, but the look in his eyes always just screamed ‘second best.’ And, as beautifully filthy as their escapades were, all remarkably rough and passionate, the reward for being Sherlock’s stunt cock was waning.

Also strange, the time he spent shagging John seemed to have a positive correlation to the amount of time he spent in Greg’s bed, clothed and… _cuddling._ The word gave him pause. It was reprehensible. He didn’t cuddle. Well, he didn’t used to.

Two months, two weeks, and four days after Mycroft’s first visit to Greg’s flat, he found himself in a position that was becoming familiar. It had been naught but twelve hours since  John had shown up at Mycroft’s penthouse, gone 3am and looking for an orgasm, and while he’d resisted saying anything hurtful, it had still been particularly difficult for Mycroft. Almost every attempt at eye contact was refused, and the few that weren’t… well… they weren’t optimal. In fact, it seemed John couldn’t look at Mycroft at all anymore without his eyes immediately filling with tears. And meeting Mycroft’s eyes without crying was, perhaps, the least John could do after several months of on-demand shagging. Mycroft, still face down in his pillow when John left without a single word, hadn’t even bothered to pull himself off before leaving his house.

So, there he was, emotionally compromised and lying in Greg’s bed, in Greg’s arms. He was searching for repose, but really he just needed to get away from his own bed, which now smelled too much of John and sex to lend him any sort of comfort. Greg must have been the last person Mycroft would ever have expected to fulfill such a role in his life, but he’d quickly become one of the only people Mycroft trusted. At least this time it was a Sunday, and neither of them had anywhere else to be anyway.

Having long since stopped trying to initiate anything physical with Greg, Mycroft had drifted off to sleep in his arms, only his jacket, waistcoat, and shoes left behind. He never knew when a lazy Sunday might turn into a multinational summit, so he always dressed for the occasion, just in case. When he awoke, Greg had him tightly wrapped up in an embrace.

Mycroft blinked his eyes open and wriggled in the Detective Inspector’s grip. “What're you doing, Gregory?”

“You were shaking… and talking. What were you dreaming about?”

Mycroft shook his head, unwilling to talk about the unpleasant visions rushing back to him.

“You kept apologizing. Who were you apologizing to?”

“John,” Mycroft breathed. He hated himself for answering.

“Why?”

“It’s hard for me to be a disappointment.” His brain screamed for him to shut up, but he couldn’t. “I don’t know how to be my brother.”

Greg released his grip and straddled Mycroft’s knees. He leaned forward on his hands, his face only inches from Mycroft’s, their lips nearly touching. “Now, why would you wanna go and do something like that anyway?”

“Because he’s the one John wants.” Mycroft’s voice was barely even a whisper.

“What about what I want?”

Mycroft closed his eyes and swallowed thickly. “What _do_ you want?”

“You.” Greg caught Mycroft’s bottom lip between his own. He ran his tongue along the crease between Mycroft’s lips until they parted to allow him entry, and he immediately invaded. When he pulled back, he pressed his forehead to Mycroft’s. “Does he kiss you like that?”

Mycroft shook his head. “He rarely kisses me at all.”

“Good. I want this to be mine… only mine. Will you do that for me?”

Mycroft silently agreed.

Greg kissed along Mycroft’s jaw and down the line of tendons in his neck, at which point Mycroft tilted his head to allow Greg better access. Soft lips ensconced in rough stubble pricked at the sensitive skin. “Does he do this?”

“No,” came the barely audible reply.

Greg loosened and removed Mycroft’s tie, tossing it aside. He then made quick work Mycroft’s buttons and gingerly opened his shirt, much like the exquisite wrapping paper of a highly anticipated Christmas gift. He placed gentle kisses along Mycroft’s sternum and soothed his hands over Mycroft’s chest and ribcage. “Does he touch you like this?”

If he was being honest with himself, no one had _ever_ touched him like that… not quite like that anyway. Maybe he’d been touched in the same places in similar ways, but this was about intent. And Greg’s intent felt… different. Before he could reply, a soft, wet tongue swirled his nipple. Two lips closed around the pert pink nub and sucked. Mycroft’s breath caught in his chest.

“Does he tell you how utterly perfect you are?”

Mycroft nodded. “But he doesn’t mean it.”

“Well, I do, because you _are_ utterly perfect.” Greg released Mycroft’s belt, button and zipper, tugging his trousers down his legs and dropping them to the floor. “Does he suck you off?”

“Sometimes, I suppose.” Mycroft was getting flustered. The dissonance between what he was physically feeling and the conversation he was forced to keep up with was overwhelming. “Can you please stop talking about him?”

“Can _I_?”

“Yes, can _you_ please stop talk—”

Greg shook his head, his nose pressed into the fabric of Mycroft’s pants, his breath hot against Mycroft’s groin. “Can _I_ suck you off?”

“Ah.” Mycroft cleared his throat and nodded again. His pants were soon tossed aside and then Greg’s mouth was on his cock, teasing, licking, sucking. Greg was no pro, which was somehow relieving, but he was _trying_ , which was more than anyone had bothered to do for Mycroft in a long time. And, pro or not, he certainly wasn’t failing. Mycroft ran his immaculately-manicured fingers through Greg’s already mussed hair and marveled at how good heat and moisture and suction could feel when applied in just the right amounts, even without extensive amounts of practice. “Have you… uh… I mean… is this—”

Greg removed his lips and continued working Mycroft with his hand. “My first time doing this?” He licked the thin trickle of pre-cum from Mycroft’s shaft back to its point of origin, where the next drop was glistening as it formed from his slit. “Is it that obvious?”

“No… you just… don’t—”

Greg stilled. “Is it bad? Am I doing it wrong?”

“God, no, not at all,” Mycroft answered quickly, his voice impossibly even under the circumstances. “It’s just that you don’t _have to_.”

“Of course I don’t.” Greg grinned. “That’s sort of the point. You don’t intimidate me, Myc. You might bring entire nations to their knees with a few well-placed threats, but I can assure you I’m on mine by choice.”

Mycroft smirked. “Why today?”

“Maybe it’s because you finally stopped trying. Maybe I just couldn’t wait any longer. Maybe you need to be reminded what it was like to be with someone who lo—” Greg’s gaze dropped to the bed as Mycroft’s breathing stuttered. “—legitimately cares about you.”

Mycroft fisted his hand into the fabric of Greg’s t-shirt as he dragged him into a deep kiss, tasting vague remnants of himself on Greg’s lips and in his mouth. “What I need—” He pulled Greg’s t-shirt over his head. “—is for you—” Then his hand disappeared beneath the waistband of Greg’s jeans. “—to fuck me… _now_.”

Greg slipped off his jeans and boxers then nearly dove for a small keepsake box on his bedside table, retrieving a condom and a bottle of lube.

Mycroft quirked a brow. “Someone’s prepared.” He ran his palms down Greg’s impressively sculpted abdomen.

Greg grinned, rolling the condom on to his erection slower than may have been strictly necessary, most probably allowing Mycroft extra time to explore. “I wasn’t lying when I said I couldn’t wait any longer.”

“You’re not the only one.” Mycroft quickly snatched the bottle of lube. He drizzled some onto Greg’s cock and then slicked two of his own fingers before pushing them inside himself.

“Jeezus, Myc… fuck…” Greg huffed, stroking himself to appropriately disperse the lube. He bit his lip, staring as Mycroft fingered himself. “I could cum just watching you.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Mycroft tutted. “Not yet. Not before I’ve had you inside me. Not after all this time.”

“You know you’re the only thing I think about when I wank these days? I suppose I’ve trained myself to come off thinking of you.”

“Mm… Well, you know what they say about old dogs and new tricks. Do you want me to turn over?”

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

Mycroft hissed as he extracted his fingers. “Then fuck me.”

Greg didn’t hesitate to follow the instruction he was given. He lined up and grunted as he pressed himself inside Mycroft in one very fluid motion. “Nnnng,” he whined. “You’re so…” His words fell off into an incoherent whimper.

“Tight? Yes, that’s natural. I’ve been told anal sex often provides a much snugger fit than vaginal penetration… not that I can say I’ve tried it.”

Greg’s body shook as he chuckled. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“What? It’s true. Vaginas never appealed to me. I much prefer—” Mycroft glanced at where Greg’s pelvis was flush against his own arse and arched his brows. “—this.”

Greg hung his head, still laughing. “Shhh.”

Mycroft stopped talking but also froze, his body tense. Suddenly, all he could hear was John’s voice beginning to call Sherlock’s name while he foolishly believed it was actually a request for silence.

“What?” Greg immediately stilled. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

“Nothing… I just… remembered something.”

“Remembered what?”

“It’s nothing. Don’t stop,” Mycroft replied, gripping Greg’s arse.

“No way. I’m not moving a muscle until you tell me. I won’t have you upset, especially not our first time together.”

Mycroft sighed. When Greg was still, he felt more something more akin to mildly uncomfortable pressure than pleasure and ached for the return of movement, friction, the slip-slide of a hard cock against his prostate. Telling him was better than the alternative. “When… when he started to call my brother’s name… I guess… at first, I thought he was just shushing me too.”

“Fuck.” Greg dropped his head to Mycroft’s shoulder for several seconds before lifting it and meeting his gaze. “Never. D’ya hear me? I don’t want your brother; I _never_ wanted your brother. _Never_. This isn’t about him or John or some perceived obligation. This is about _me_ and _you_ and how much I want you. Because I do, ya know? _I want you_.”

Mycroft was mortified to have to blink back a tear. “Then have me… please.” He wasn’t fond of the desperation in his voice.

Greg kissed him hard as he began thrusting again. It was a few minutes later when he tugged Mycroft into his lap and started stroking him in time with his own cadence.

“Mm… Gregory… harder… and don’t stop,” Mycroft keened at the touch.

“God… you feel… amazing,” Greg panted in response. “I’m not sure… how long—”

“No, it’s fi—” Mycroft stopped himself, remembering he’d taught Greg that ‘fine’ meant anything but. “I don’t mind. I’m close… really close.”

“Tell me what you want, what you need from me.”

Mycroft’s words trickled out between ragged breaths. “Harder… faster… deeper… and… if you… spread… your knees… just a bit… the angle…” He gasped for a breath as Greg obeyed. The renewed attention to his prostate in coordination with the friction on his cock sent him blindingly over the edge. His command of the English language escaped him, along with the strained cry that rose up and fell from his lips. His body went rigid, and he shuddered as he came across Greg’s fist and his own stomach, harder and longer than he could ever remember cumming before.

Greg milked him through his orgasm, whimpering as the muscles around his own prick must have clenched and released over and over again. He closed his eyes, sucked one of his own fingers into his mouth, pushed in as deeply as he could, and came with a plaintive cry.

Mycroft could feel Greg’s cock shuddering inside him as he climaxed. Just watching Greg come apart above him was nearly too much to take. His breath caught in his chest, and he didn’t breathe again until his lover was drained and beginning to wither. “Was it worth the wait?”

Greg pulled out and slumped beside him. “You’re joking, right?”

Mycroft shook his head, though only barely. “I want to hear it from you.”

“God, yes,” Greg replied without hesitation. “If I’d known it’d be so good, I might not have been such a gentleman for the last couple months.”

“If _I’d_ known it would be so good, I wouldn’t have _allowed_ you to remain quite so studious.”

Greg grinned. “So, I was okay?”

“No. You were amazing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. I promised myself I had to edit at least 5 chapters of my original fiction novel after this chapter. So, you won't get anymore of this story until I do that. If you want to speed the process along, feel free to harass me at megg33k.tumblr.com. I need all the encouragement I can get! ♥
> 
> Also, it's almost 5am, and I certainly didn't bother with a beta. I'll fix any problems in due time. Sorry if there are tons.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a love triangle, things generally end up coming to a head. This is that moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated two ways for this to go. Neither was happy. What you got was an equally (or possibly more) unhappy combination of the two. Looking back now, I don't know how I could have ever considered any other route. Did I mention it's not happy? It's SO not happy.

After a long while of lying quietly in the afterglow, Greg finally broke their comfortable silence. “You’re done now, right?”

“Hm? With what?” Mycroft asked, absently tracing circles in the nest of silver hair over Greg’s heart.

“John. You’re done now?”

“What?” He stopped, glancing up at Greg. “I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about. Doubtful, though. Why?”

“Seriously? You’re still… Why, Myc? Why would you still want to—”

“Want has nothing to do with this.”

“Bullshit! At some point, you can’t keep blaming obligation.”

Mycroft could barely argue. He hadn’t mentioned the arrangement with John to Sherlock in what must have been months. Surely, Sherlock had long since assumed it was over, and he didn’t say a word. It wasn’t Greg’s decision, though. He didn’t want someone telling him what he could or couldn’t do, and he wouldn’t stand for it. “I don’t need to blame anything. I’m a grown man and quite capable of making my own decisions, Gregory. You needn’t do it for me.”

“Clearly,” he huffed. “Here I was, daft old Greg, thinking maybe you’d stop if you had something better.”

“Is that what this was about? Some unspoken contract to which I wasn’t privy? Is that why—”

“No.” Greg scrubbed his face with his palm. “Fuck… no… just… I told myself it wouldn’t bother me, but it does.”

 Mycroft quickly rose to his feet and began to dress. “Well, I’m sorry it bothers you, but you haven’t exactly come into this blind, now have you? You knew the situation.”

“Myc, wait. It’s just… he’s bad for you, and it makes me sick to think you allow it. To think of him touching you—” Greg half-gagged on his own words.

“I’m not your possession, Gregory,” Mycroft hissed, as dressed as he saw necessary and standing in the doorway.

“Nope, nor would I want you to be.” Greg barked a laugh. “Treating you like an object, using you like some sex toy… that’s clearly John’s division.”

Mycroft didn’t dignify him with a response before making his way outside, to his car, and back to his penthouse. When he reached his bedroom, subtle stains ghosted his bed sheets and told him none of his staff had yet seen fit to change them. He fell into them and reveled in the scent that had originally driven him away. John may have been using him, but at least he didn’t presume to make demands regarding Mycroft’s actions when they were apart. There was something to be said for freedom.

***

Three days passed, three days’ worth of Greg incessantly ringing Mycroft's phone. He briefly considered changing his number, but that seemed… extreme. Ignoring the calls would have to do. All the therapists he’d fired over the years would point out that ignoring calls seemed to be his way of dealing with everything. Though they wouldn’t be incorrect, that was one of the many reasons they’d all be relieved of their duties.

It was 11:03am, Britain was quiet, and Mycroft was bored. Greg had called twice already just since he’d arrived at his office. He took his phone from the desk and pondered it for a moment. _Three_ times now… he hit ignore. When the line was free, he flicked through his contacts and dialed. It rang in his ear.

“Hello?” The voice was more confused than pleasant.

“John?”

“Mycroft? What are you doing calling mid-morning on a Wednesday?”

“I know this is rather unorthodox for us, but I’d like you to come by my office at your earlier convenience.”

John didn’t quite protest, but he didn’t quite agree either. “Might I ask why?”

“I require your services,” Mycroft said succinctly.

“I… I mean… I don’t work cases anymo—”

“Not those services.”

“Are you hurt? Do you need medic—”

“Not those either. Bring supplies,” Mycroft said cheerily. “I trust you understand?”

“Wha… I… oh… god… okay. Be there in twenty minutes, maybe less.”

Mycroft hung up the phone and called for Anthea, who appeared in the door. Her eyes were fixed to the screen of her Blackberry.

“Anthea, darling. I’m taking a meeting with John Watson shortly. Make sure no one interrupts us, would you?”

She nodded and silently shut the door behind her. It remained shut until 11:17am. _Fourteen minutes. Someone’s eager._

“Thanks for coming, John. Shut the door, if you don’t mind?”

John did as he was told and crossed to Mycroft’s desk. “Did you really call me for sex?”

“Sit. Please?” Mycroft motioned to the chair across the desk and waited for John to obey. “Does it bother you to know I’ve entered into a sexual relationship with Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

John’s eyes widened briefly, but he shrugged. “I’d say I’m more surprised than bothered. Condoms may be a bit more necessary now, cheating wife and all.”

“Mm… One more thing?”

“What’s that?”

“Drop the pretenses, will you? You’re an awful liar. God help us if you’d been captured in war.”

“Pretenses?” John seemed to truly not understand.

“Crosby, Stills, and Nash,” Mycroft parroted his own words, from the last time they’d both occupied his office, back at him.

“Ah. As you wish.” John smirked. “Shall we?”

Mycroft stood and made his way to the front of his desk. He tugged John to his feet and furiously stripped him of his coat, pulled off his jumper, and worked on his buttons with a similar sense of urgency. As he worked, he too was stripped of his outer layers, jacket, waistcoat, even necktie. John’s shirt was unbuttoned and hanging off his biceps, Mycroft’s only half buttoned, when they heard Anthea outside the door. It sounded vaguely like arguing.

“She’ll handle it,” Mycroft assured John before pulling him for a rough kiss and shoving his hand down the front of John’s trousers.

In the split second before their lips met, his office door swung open. Anthea’s voice, still pleading, rang out through the open doorway, with only a devastated Greg Lestrade blocking her view of the inner office. Slack-jawed, he let the door swing shut behind him. The bag in his hand fell the floor with a sickening squish, but no one paid it any mind. “Seriously?” He gaped. “This is why you’re not answering my calls?”

Mycroft unceremoniously pulled his hand from John’s trousers. “No, this has nothing to do with why I’ve ignored your calls. The two are entirely unrelated. What’re you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, but I guess I already know the answer to that.”

Mycroft sighed, unimpressed. “What do you want, Gregory? I’m a bit busy, as you can see.”

Greg laughed cynically. “I wanted to come by, bring you lunch, apologize for the other night. I couldn’t do it over the phone, as you’ve been blatantly ignoring me.” He glared at John, the contempt in his eyes burning hot enough to rival the sun. “I wanted to tell you I couldn’t get you off my mind, get the image of you from the other night out of my head.” He stepped closer, putting himself between John and Mycroft. His voice dropped an octave to a low, sensual growl. “I wanted to tell you how I fingered myself thinking of you, how much I wished it were you instead, how much I wanted you to fuck me.”

Mycroft’s breath came out in a shudder, and he cleared his throat. “I see no reason that can’t still happen,” he said coolly, despite the tightening in his chest and the uneasiness of his stomach.

“Don’t you?” Greg snorted. “Obviously someone else beat me to it today.” He glanced angrily over his shoulder at John. “Just couldn’t wait, eh?”

John, who had thus far remained completely silent, chuckled. “This wasn’t even my idea. _He_ called _me_ ,” he whispered happily.

Greg twisted his gaze back to Mycroft. “That true?”

Mycroft shrugged.

“Fine.” Greg gave a terse nod. “If this is what you want, then let’s do this.”

“Excuse me—”

“This is how it has to be.” Greg shrugged out of his jacket, spun, and pressed his lips to John’s.

Mycroft’s stomach clenched.  He hadn’t, until that moment, understood why it would make Greg sick to picture him with John. But as the bile rose in his throat, he knew. “Stop!”

“What’s wrong?” Greg turned his attention back to Mycroft, leaving John in a daze of confusion.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“If this is what you want, then this is what I want, too. Together or not at all.”

Mycroft glanced at John, who still looked equally perplexed but shrugged and nodded a silent agreement. “Fine. Together.” Mycroft was determined to remain uneffected... at least in outward appearance.

Together, Mycroft and John stripped Greg and themselves. Mycroft focused on exploring Greg’s body, while John kissed and bit at Mycroft’s neck and shoulders under Greg’s watchful gaze.

Mycroft cleared his desk, and Greg laid himself across it. John proffered a condom and took the liberty of rolling it down Mycroft’s cock for him. Mycroft slicked his fingers with lube and pressed two into Greg. The lack of iron-clad resistance corroborated the story of him fingering himself, and Mycroft had never before so desperately wished he’d convinced the council to put cameras in the homes of every person living under the Union Jack. It was footage he’d have literally killed to see.

“You sure about this?” Mycroft asked Greg, extracting his fingers and slicking his cock. He said he was, but the look in his eyes read as pure and intense fear. “I won’t hurt you,” he promised.

Greg mumbled something that sounded like, “No more than you already have.”

Mycroft ignored it and pushed inside him with a groan. He was tight, exceptionally so, and Mycroft had missed the sensation. He hadn’t penetrated anyone since the night with John in Sherlock’s bed, the first time he’d sworn to himself he’d never again be intimate with John. This time was different.

Mycroft searched Greg’s eyes as he repeatedly thrust into him, but there was no sense of longing for someone else. There was no implication of Sherlock’s name on his lips. There was no pitiful attempt to quell tears. There was only sentiment and emotional pain. Mycroft recognized it; it was the look that had stared back at him from every mirror he passed for months. But he didn’t want Greg to feel the way John made him feel, and suddenly he knew why Greg insisted John was bad for him.

Before Mycroft could process his epiphany and react appropriately, John’s lips were on his neck and his fingers working themselves into Mycroft’s arse, opening him up in the way they’d become accustomed.

Mycroft sucked in a harsh breath and pressed deeper into Greg. When he’d adjusted, he began to again rock his hips in a pleasant cadence. It was hard to keep his feet under him with John’s skilled digits teasing his prostate, though. In the space of only a few minutes, he went from perfectly in control to chaotic euphoria. His hips jerked wildly, grinding against John’s hand and slamming roughly into Greg’s gloriously firm arse.

John caught Mycroft’s mouth in a crude kiss, invading it with his tongue. Mycroft’s strained cry when he came swelled and died in John’s throat. He whimpered as John bit his lip on the release.

When Mycroft finally looked to Greg again, he saw the rage in his eyes. He’d kissed John… the one thing Greg had asked him not to do, the one thing he’d begged him not to do. And, worse yet, he’d done in front of Greg with his prick still buried and erupting in the man’s arse. Mycroft pulled out and tried to kiss him, but was denied. So instead, he kissed apologetically down Greg’s chest and torso. He kissed down one side of Greg’s cock, up the other side, and then took the glans into his mouth. He sucked away the pre-cum, teased at Greg’s fraenulum with his tongue, and slid the head back and forth against the interior of his cheek.

Still bent and pleasuring Greg, Mycroft felt the slicked tip of John’s sheathed cock lining up to press inside him. He paused for a moment, concerned mostly for Greg’s safety in case of unanticipated discomfort. There was no room for teeth gnashing with a cock in his mouth.

“Wait! Please!” Greg called in the momentary lapse when Mycroft’s lips no longer hugged his prick. Everyone stilled in response.

“What’s wrong?” Mycroft straightened his spine and stretched.

Greg nodded to John. “Have me instead.”

“No… I want _him_.”

“Why? Why not me?”

“Well, first of all and unlike you, I’m not much for sloppy seconds.” John snorted a laugh. “But most because he’s the one who reminds me of Sherlock.”

“Again with that.” Greg huffed. “That’s really all you care about? Being reminded of Sherlock? It bothers him when you say that, ya know?”

What had started as quiet laughter turned into an outright guffaw. “Is that what he’s told you? Just today, he asked me to drop the pretenses and stop being so nice.”

“Bollocks!” Whether Greg really believed it was untrue or just chose to tell himself it was a lie was unclear. “Don’t you care at all about what Myc wants?”

“Myc? Pet names already?” John scoffed. “What _Myc_ wants? What he wanted for months, maybe even years, was for me to fuck him. And I did, Greg… I fucked him seven ways from Sunday, and he _loved_ it.

“You damaged him.” Greg shot off the desk, standing in front of John and looking down at him. “You were cruel.”

“Yeah?” John smirked. “Let me tell you a secret about your little boyfriend, because you don’t _always_ have to be a Holmes to _observe_ , to _deduce_. Maybe I _was_ cruel. But the crueler I was, the harder and longer and louder he came. So, whether you want to think about it or not, it seems he gets off on that sort of thing.”

In the space of a breath, Greg’s fist connected with John’s face. He shook his hand and began to gather his clothes in a rush while John sat on the floor, naked, reeling, and bleeding from the nose. “If that’s what you want—” He nodded toward John. “—then have him, but lose my fucking number. I don’t control you or own you or mean to tell you how you can or can’t live your life, but I do get to decide how to live mine. And I won’t share you with… _that_ ,” he hissed, glancing at the Army doctor still crumpled on the floor. “Work out what you want. I’ll only wait so long.”

With that, Greg was gone, and the emptiness in Mycroft’s gut told him it might be for good. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, not all threesomes are happy! Sorry! My dear friend, homosociallyyours (on Tumblr), called it angstward (angsty-awkward) sex. I think the term is brilliant, and it certainly applies here.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The immediate aftermath of the threesome gone wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a full chapter... not even close. It's sort of an interim thing that I wanted to get out of my system and give you a taste of Mycroft's new frame of mind. Plus, it didn't fit as an end to the last chapter, nor do I feel it would be a good beginning for the next. So, this is just... well... it is what it is.

Mycroft also dressed and offered John his hand. He helped him to his feet and handed him a tissue from the box on his bookshelf.

“Can you believe the bastard decked me?” John finally asked, his voice a bit muffled through the tissue pressed to his nose and slightly obscuring his mouth.

“Ah.” Mycroft was tying and straightening his tie. “I’m sorry. Did you mistake my actions for kindness or sympathy?”

“Wh—”

“Just then… did you think my helping you up and offering you a tissue were attempts at comforting you? Do you think I feel sorry for you?”

“Well, I assum—”

“Yes.  You make a habit of doing that, don’t you? Well, as usual, you’ve misinterpreted things. I simply didn’t want your DNA on my carpeting, and standing puts you one step closer to leaving.”

“Hey! You’re the one who told me to stop being so kind.”

Mycroft’s hand was at John’s throat in an instant, shoving him up against the office door with a loud thud. He’d never felt the kind of rage that swelled in his chest, not even that night in Sherlock’s bed. He was disgusted with John and even more disgusted with himself. He was all hate and rage and flaring nostrils when he eventually spoke, his voice naught more than a hiss expelled through clenched teeth. “I told you to stop being so kind to _me_. Not Greg. _Never Greg_. You turned me into someone who would make him feel the way you’ve made me feel, and…” He paused, quelling his anger just enough to fight the urge to choke John until the light behind his eyes withered and died. “That. Will. Never. Happen. Again. Are we clear?”

John’s hands grasped helplessly at Mycroft’s wrist when he nodded in agreement. He coughed and choked and gasped for air when he was finally released.

Mycroft collected John’s clothes and chucking them at his face. “Now remove yourself before I have you removed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope to have another full chapter up in the next few days. If not, at least this will tide you over.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft goes to Greg to make amends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG... This chapter drained the fucking life out of me. It went on forever and ever. No, it's not the end of the story... somehow. This fic still has a ways to go... I intend to follow it until after Sherlock returns and show how everyone deals with that. I'm not sure if I should apologize for having so much left or say 'you're welcome'... so... uhm... I'm sorry. You're welcome! There... now I've done both! Enjoy... or something!

Quietly and without further incidence, John left, his proverbial tail tucked between his legs. Everything about his appearance, expression, and demeanor suggested he’d briefly forgotten with whom he was dealing. Sadder yet, Mycroft had briefly forgotten it, too. But no more.

He waited only a few beats after John left to take his leave as well, but he stopped near Anthea to bark a few instructions first. “Clear my afternoon. Hold my calls. And have the surveillance footage from my office from the moment John Watson arrived until this very moment corrupted and thrice formatted.”

She looked up from her Blackberry for the first time. “Surveillance footage, sir?”

“Don’t be coy. If you truly believe there’s no surveillance in my office, then I’ve greatly overestimated your intellect, and I don’t believe that to be case. Do tell me you understand? I’ve no time to find another assistant.”

“Of course, sir.”  Anthea gave a tight smile and dropped her gaze back to her screen. “Shall I call your driver?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Mycroft replied, but she was already meandering away.

Once in his car, he headed straight to Greg’s flat, hoping the detective had gone home. As he drove, the hollow pit in his stomach reminded him of all the ways he’d failed the man who tried only to help him. The gravity of his actions and his inability to take them back haunted him. Even if Greg turned him away, he had to try to make amends.

Mycroft stood at the door of Greg’s flat, terrified to knock, unwilling run. He raised his hand and rapped quietly enough that he worried, or perhaps hoped, Greg wouldn’t hear. Rustling from inside told him that wasn’t the case.

The door cracked open, and Greg peeked out, his eyes glistening and his lids red and puffy. “What?”

“May I come in, if only for a moment?”

“Doubtful.” Greg snorted. “What d’you want?”

“To talk.” Mycroft stared down at his feet. “To apologize.”

“I’m listening.”

“Gregory, I—”

“DI Lestrade’ll do nicely, I think.”

“Right.” Mycroft chanced a split second of eye contact, but the evidence of tears was too much to bear. He cleared his throat and tried to ignore the stinging at the back of his own eyes. “I didn’t come here for forgiveness. I understand the way I’ve acted… the way I’ve treated you is unforgivable. And I’m ashamed.”

Greg looked on with ennui, clearly unimpressed. “Go on,” he said, though he didn’t sound as if he meant it.

“I sent him away. The way he talked to you…” Mycroft shuddered with disgust. “I assaulted him… physically.”

Before he spoke another word, Greg dragged him inside and slammed the door. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“I’m not sure, to be honest. My anger just—”

“No, not that.” Greg winced against his palm. “Trust that I understand why you might assault him. I can commiserate.” He looked at his reddened knuckles. “Why would you say so outside my flat where absolutely anyone could hear you, though?”

“I’m not concerned for my own well-being. Anthea’s taking care of the footage. There’ll be no proof that either of you were ever even at my office today. And I don’t suspect John’s foolish enough to file a report anyway.”

“I’m not concerned for my own well-being,” Greg repeated with a cynical chuckle. “You should really consider that when you’re looking to title your memoirs someday.”

Mycroft ignored the remark. “I wanted to kill him, you know? I had my hand at his throat, and I could have. He wasn’t fighting it, almost like he wished I would. I just kept hearing the things he’d said to you, taunting you. The way he made me treat you—”

“That’s enough. You can go.” Greg pointed at the door.

“What? Why?”

“You’ve already gotten it all wrong, Myc. What happened to you?”

“Wrong? Nothing. Please—”

Greg stepped up, toe-to-toe and very nearly eye-to-eye with Mycroft. His words were quiet but gritty, somewhere between a whisper and growl. “It’s always someone else’s fault, isn’t it? You fucked him for Sherlock. You mistreated me for him. You wanted to kill him for me. Enough with the fucking martyr act. Admit it. You fucked him because you wanted to. You hurt me because I let you. And you wanted to kill him simply because you could. You told me a few days ago that you didn’t know how to be your brother, but you’re doing a pretty bang up job of it as best I can tell.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means…” Greg sighed and shook his head. “It means you bend your view of the world into whatever scope best fits your agenda, disregarding the fact there are six billion other people who have to live here too. You miss the little things… or maybe you just ignore them. But you take and use and blame, all without remorse. And then you leave the mess for someone else to clean up, Anthea, the Yard, even John. Sherlock, in his finest act of self-sacrifice yet, faked his death to save our lives. But did he bother to ask if we wanted that on our shoulders?”

“I… I don’t—”

“Shut up. I’m not finished,” Greg snarled. “Do you think for a single second that John Watson wouldn’t rather dodge bullets for the rest of his life with Sherlock at his side than to go through… through… this, whatever _this_ is? Mourning the living and screwing his brother to sate some desire he doesn’t know how to deal with? Do you really think any of us would _choose_ this?”

“Why are you defending him?” The words fell from Mycroft’s mouth in a sickening whimper.

“God, you just don’t fucking get it, do you? I’m not defending him. None of this excuses his actions. Not even grief can force someone to act like a prick. He made his choices, you made yours, and god help me, I made mine.”

“What were yours?” Mycroft’s voice was little more than a whisper.

“To lo—” Greg blinked slowly and took a steadying breath. “To let you hurt me, in hopes you might catch even a glimpse of how badly you were fucking up your life.”

“That’s the second time you’ve started to say love.” Mycroft hesitated, wishing to go mute in order to silence the question he knew he had to ask. “Do you?”

“No.”  Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, Greg shook his head. “No one _chooses_ to love a Holmes. Not John, and certainly not me. I assure you, it’s completely involuntary.”

“Do you actually presume to love me?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Greg stepped back, as if the close proximity to Mycroft was suddenly more than he could handle. “It stopped mattering the moment you kissed him and broke the only promise you ever made me.”

“ _He_ kissed _m_ —”

“GET OUT!”

“Wait. No. I’m sorry. Yes, I kissed him.” Mycroft sank into the nearest chair before his legs could execute their threat to go out from under him. “And I watched your heart break.” He buried his face in his palm. “And never, for as long as I live, will I ever forget the look in your eyes when it broke.”

Greg sat on the coffee table in front of Mycroft, and his voice softened. “Why’d you call him?”

“Does it matter?”

“Maybe.”

Mycroft sat straighter, composed himself, and crossed his legs. The things he was saying, the things he was about to say… it wasn’t like him to be so… open. But maybe this was some new version of him that Greg needed to see, perhaps even one who might one day deserve Greg’s affections. “The other day, lying in your arms, was the first time in my life I wished to give myself over to another human being. I wanted to say yes to anything you asked, and it terrified me. So, I rebelled like a petulant child. I called the one person who could remind what it was like to have sex that meant absolutely nothing, remind me what it was like when it was still just a struggle for pleasure and a means of gratification. But then you showed up, and god, I wanted you.”

Mycroft subconsciously brought his fingers to his lips, biting down on the knuckle of his left index finger. “And suddenly the only thing that was meaningless was John. I barely even remembered he was there, and he knew it. I had you in front of me and him behind me, and I’d never had so much attention in all my life, and I was _so_ close. And then he kissed me, and I kissed back… I did. And when I came, I felt my voice echoing inside his mouth, but it didn’t matter whose mouth it was… not until I looked at you. And then I saw your face, and it felt like my soul collapsed in on itself. You’d done nothing but try to comfort me, and I’d just thrown it all away… on _him_. And I wanted to apologize, but I didn’t know how… I still don’t know how. And in the space of seventy-two hours, you’d taken the title of both the best and worst sexual experiences of my life.

A tear slipped silently down Mycroft’s cheek. “And it wasn’t until I’d irreparably harmed whatever it was we were building, until you stopped loving me, that I realized _I_ loved _you_. And then it didn’t matter, because I’d never be with you again. So, I made the most of whatever time I had left, and I touched you so I might remember what it felt like to be with someone I really loved. And then you had to be noble.” At that point, and much to Mycroft’s chagrin, he completely dissolved into tears. “Why the fuck did you have to be so goddamn noble?”

“Because I never stopped.” Greg wrapped Mycroft in a warm embrace while he trembled. “I already told you, loving you is completely involuntary.”

When their eyes finally met again, even through the blur of tears, Mycroft could see something that looked like the future. He could feel unconditional love in Greg’s touch and taste forever on his lips. Then the grip around his chest tightened and the entirety of his body weight was being lift from the chair as Greg stood. Mycroft’s arms snaked around Greg’s neck and his legs around Greg’s waist. It was ridiculous and cliché and he didn’t care.

Mycroft’s phone buzzed as Greg laid him across the bed. The caller ID showed John’s name, and Mycroft waited for Greg to change his mind.

Instead, Greg took the phone from his hand. “Are you really done with him?”

Mycroft nodded. “I swear.”

And with that, Greg answered, “Detective Inspector Lestrade… Yes, he is… No, you can’t… Dr. Watson, it’s my duty to inform you that Mr. Holmes is currently in my care and custody, and if you contact him again, I’ll bring you in myself on harassment charges. Furthermore, I can all but guarantee you a holding cell with at least one or two poorly searched criminals who you yourself helped lock up. Do we have an understanding?” He smirked. “Good. I thought we might… Good day, Dr. Watson.”

Mycroft took the phone from Greg and tossed it aside. “You must know how sexy that is.”

Greg pressed his hips between Mycroft’s thighs, one hardening cock against another. “I’m getting the idea. Care to elaborate?”

And he _did_ want to elaborate, but it was suddenly all very real. He’d told Greg he loved him, and they were actually making a go of it. Greg was no longer some guy who tried to comfort him, who took pity on him. Greg was the man he loved, the man who loved him, and everything had to be perfect. But it didn’t feel perfect. He felt like a teenager again, in all the worst ways, but he hadn’t even gone through this as a teenager. This wasn’t the life he ever expected. He grew up being the ‘freak’ and the ‘fag.’ It wasn’t even a life he briefly let himself consider. He didn’t get the sweet, gentle, loving, attractive guy he’d admired from afar. He was always a poor man’s Sherlock; there was no such thing as a rich man’s Mycroft.

But Greg looked at him like he was a prize, a phenomenon, a thing of absolute beauty. And what if he never got the hang of this life? What if he got a momentary glimpse of what could have been only to obliterate it with his general ignorance? Of course he was a genius, but what does a genius know of love? The chemical reactions, the pheromones, the physiology, he could recite it from memory. Their elevated heart rates, sweaty palms, the pleasant flush to their skin… dopamine, norepinephrine and phenylethylamine were to blame. But what of the proverbial heart? It wasn’t about atriums or ventricles. The answer didn’t lie in the aorta or the inferior vena cava. He was lost, and Greg looked so… expectant.

He couldn’t get a full breath, his lungs refused to expand. His alveoli rejected that which was necessary to keep him alive. Why would his body betray him? His mind raced and faltered and failed. Small electrical jolts seemed to be going off inside his brain. His nerve endings felt like they were on fire everywhere Greg touched, and when had his shirt come off?

A cursory glance at his surroundings revealed his body had gone into autopilot. He was going through the motions, grabbing, kissing, licking, stiffening. His hands and lips and tongue and cock all did the things they knew. It was only his brain lagging behind, trying desperately to keep up, or rather to catch up… sprinting toward a finish line that mightn’t even exist.

The tug of fabric down his legs and the cool rush of air brought him partially back around. The world was moving on around him, even if he was being held prisoner inside his on consciousness. It wasn’t that he didn’t want what was happening… he did, oh, god, he did. He wanted more of it; he wanted to participate in it with both mind and body. But what if it wasn’t perfect? Or, worse yet, what if it wasn’t even good enough? They’d been together before, but the expectations had changed. Hadn’t they? Perhaps they hadn’t.

As Mycroft tried to get back in the game, he immediately began to flounder. He struggled with a zip and fumbled with buttons. He no longer moved with the ease of autopilot. If it had ever been perfect, now it certainly wasn’t. And while he hadn’t noticed some of the physicality before, the sudden lack of it became jarring. His eyes settled on Greg, who looked more than mildly concerned.

“You okay? I’m beginning to feel like I’m violating you somehow.”

“What? No. I’m… fine.” He cursed himself as soon as he said it. It wasn’t intentional, but the sentiment it conveyed was alarmingly accurate. “Wait. I didn’t mean—”

“Except you did.” Greg laid back and coaxed Mycroft’s head onto his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

Almost instinctively, Mycroft curled into Greg’s side like he’d done so many times before. “The expectations of love,” he replied succinctly.

“What expectations?”

“I don’t know, and I suspect that’s part of the problem. I’ve never done this before.”

“Sex?” Greg chuckled. “I’m certain you have, and quite well, if you don’t mind my saying so.” He pressed his lips to Mycroft’s forehead.

“Love.” Mycroft peered up to meet Greg’s gaze. “Or, at least, not the combination of the two. Familial love, even friendly love on occasion, but sex hardly seemed appropriate. With my sexual partners over the years, I’ve experienced everything from attraction to lust to outright infatuation, but never quite love.”

“You didn’t love me three days ago?”

“If I did, I hadn’t yet recognized it.”

Greg turned to face Mycroft. “We’re still the same people.” He trailed his fingertips down Mycroft’s ribcage, past his waist, and settled near his hip, absently stroking the smooth skin. “Nothing’s changed.”

“But everything’s changed,” Mycroft whispered, inching closer.

“It’ll only be better,” Greg promised as he rolled Mycroft onto his back and captured the leg closest to him between his own knees.

Two fingers walked the length of Mycroft’s abdomen and splayed around his cock. Though it was mostly limp again, seemingly confused by the dissonance of simultaneous panic and pleasure, it twitched in response. The flesh was still pliable in Greg’s palm when he began to massage and stroke, but its rigidity grew by the second. Mycroft bit his lip and bit back a moan.

Several long moments later, he was achingly hard, and Greg loosed his grip to stand and remove the remainder of his clothing. He retrieved a bottle of lube and a condom before he again settled on the bed. Mycroft watched intently as Greg set the condom aside and began to stroke himself. With each long, luxurious pull of fist across prick, Mycroft drew a ragged breath. Then Greg paused, drizzled a bit of the thin, slick fluid onto his fingers, and pressed one inside himself. When a second join the first, he once again began to stroke.

Mycroft’s tongue dragged between his lips. Only a few hours before, he’d wished he could see what Greg had described. Though the image in front of him, Greg sprawled on the bed, one hand pumping his prick while the other moved slowly in and out of his arse, was far more lascivious than he’d ever dreamed. He watched and watched and then stroked himself with a whimper. His head dropped back to the pillow, eyes closed. But he could feel himself being watched. He peeked out from beneath heavy lids to find Greg’s face plastered with a filthy grin. The heat and intensity of his stare was alarming, a wanton lustfulness in his gaze. Mycroft released himself immediately just to avoid an immediate climax. Greg had never looked at him that way… no one had ever looked at him that way. And then Greg loomed over him, straddling Mycroft’s thighs and carefully rolling a condom down his hair-triggered cock. He gently greased it with a lube-slicked palm and hovered just above, poised on the balls of his feet and smiling with excitement.

The tension in Mycroft’s chest was almost unbearable. His breath was stilted by an unseen force.  The little air he was taking in was heavy with the smell of musk and lust. He wanted… oh, god, he wanted… but he also feared. It was ridiculous to think love would make it feel different, better or worse, but he worried it would anyway. And before Greg could lower himself down, he wobbled. A broken cry loomed in Mycroft’s throat, but he hadn’t enough air to push it out.

Greg dropped forward onto his knees with a chuckle. “It’s okay, I promise. Don’t you trust me?”

Mycroft gave a tight nod. His cocked jutted up and bobbed obscenely in the empty space between Greg’s thighs, beckoning a steadying grip. And the request was granted. Warmth and overwhelming tightness enveloped Mycroft as Greg sank onto him and was soon seated fully in his lap.

As Greg began to slowly rock, Mycroft exhaled and everything else drained away. The room blurred to vague blocks of colour, his hearing muffled by the gentle roar of pulsing blood. His head was reeling, and he had to breathe or risk losing consciousness. He couldn’t manage much, but even quick, shallow breaths would keep him going. Then they slowed and became more deliberate in direct discordance with Greg’s movements.

And it _did_ feel different. Whether it was love or oxygen deprivation was unclear, but the latter was a direct result of the former, so his foregone conclusion still stood. Love did change everything. But it wasn’t worse. Just as Greg had promised, it _was_ better… but how? It defied reason for a familiar sensation to feel so extraordinarily foreign. His sensitivity was heightened, his nerve endings on high alert. He was both hyperaware and rapturously oblivious. Every touch sparked in his veins, each snap of their hips igniting his blood.

A deep, guttural moan floated from Greg’s lips and pulled Mycroft out of his own head. His body, once again, had taken over where his brain faltered. His hand on Greg’s cock moved of its own volition, ejaculate splattering hot and thick on his chest. Greg shuddered above him, clenching and thrumming around Mycroft’s cock, and there was no time for pulling back or prolonging the inevitable. Mycroft was being dragged over the edge into white-hot bliss whether he liked it, whether he was ready for it or not. A piteous sound rose from his gut, a strangled sob that expired in his throat. Mycroft’s hips bucked up into Greg, hard and deep, and he quaked beneath him.

Greg collapsed next to Mycroft, looking every bit as spent and sated as Mycroft felt. They both panted, their heart rates similarly elevated as was confirmed when Mycroft rested his head on Greg’s chest.

“Well? Did everything change?” Greg asked when he’d finally caught his breath.

Mycroft nodded.

“And? Can you live with it?”

“Of course.” Mycroft draped his arm over Greg’s torso and pulled him close. “I never feared I couldn’t.” The blank stare he received in response persuaded him to continue. “The problem, as I’ve come to discover, is that I don’t think I can go back to living _without_ it.”

“That’s the brilliant bit.” Greg’s lips twitched into a grin. “You don’t have to.” He pressed a soft kiss to Mycroft’s lips. “I love you, Myc… god help me, I do.”

“Too right.” Mycroft nuzzled into the crook of Greg’s neck. “And I you, Gregory... and I you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said before, this is NOT the end. It feels a bit like an ending on purpose though. I have to take at least a brief hiatus (certainly no more than a week or two) to work on real life stuff now. I've gotten notes on my next novel from my newest reader, and it's time I put in some effort on real life obligations... things that might one day make me money. Haha! Please don't give up on me or the fic. I'll be back. You can always harass me at megg33k.tumblr.com if you like. I love getting messages, so don't hesitate. I'm not the type to set something aside and forget about it either. There is a clear ending to this for me, and I won't stop writing it until you've gotten to read that ending. Thanks for spending your time with my versions of these characters. I really appreciate all the kindness left in comments. <3
> 
> Also... it's about 11:20am, and I haven't slept in a really long time. So, typos? Yeah... I'll deal with that later. Sorry! *mwah*


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A phone call in the middle of the night can be so much more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is super short... less than 1000 words. Sorry! But the next will be proper and something you've been waiting for.

Though Mycroft kept his distance from John, just as he’d promised Greg he would, he kept John under close surveillance. After all, he had promised Sherlock he’d keep an eye on the man, even if he wasn’t often reporting his findings to his brother. The situation was… not good. ‘Not good’ was actually putting it mildly.

Days became weeks, weeks became months, and John became… well… the shell of a man, little more than a walking, inebriated corpse. All intel seemed to suggest a downward spiral of monumental proportions. But what is a Holmes to do? One can’t bear to risk the love of a good man when one always believed he might never earn such a thing in the first place.

So, when Mycroft’s mobile rang half 4 in the morning, the love of that good man, the one curled around him in bed, was enough to make him ignore John’s call. The nagging in the pit of his stomach told him he should answer… it was late, he hadn’t heard from John in ages, it might be important… but he didn’t, and Greg sleepily grinned his approval and pride regarding the choice. And that grin, love’s sleep-addled grin, could move mountains.

A few moments later, Mycroft’s voicemail alert sounded. He glanced at Greg, then at the phone, and back at Greg again. “I… I mean, what if…”

Greg kissed Mycroft softly and snuggled tighter against his side, his voice rough from sleep. “Check it, love.” He playfully teased at the elastic of Mycroft’s pants. “I’d like your full attention back sooner than later.”

Mycroft smiled softly against the crown of Greg’s head and checked the message. What he heard was the drunken slur of an apology. In proper English, it might have gone something like this: ‘Mycroft? It’s John. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for the way I treated you, the things I said. I knew I was hurting you, and I didn’t care. I see that now, now that you’re gone. No one should be given a chance with two men as remarkable as the Holmes brothers, and I fucked up both of my chances. Sherlock died never knowing I loved him, and I was too hung up on a dead man to realize what I might have had with you. I didn’t take you seriously. I didn’t take _me_ seriously. I’m pathetic. And if I hadn’t been so stupid, I may have even loved you. I can’t do this anymore. I’ll leave you alone now. I’m just… I’m really sorry.’

Granted, that’s not what he heard, but he was a Holmes. He knew what John meant. What’s more, he _knew_ what John _meant._ “Greg… I think… John’s in trouble. I should go.”

“I thought we were done with this…” Greg pulled him closer. “You promised you were done with him.”

“And I have been. So, don’t you think it must be important if I’m arguing it now, after several months and in the middle of the night?”

“Myc… please?”

It’s funny how a lover’s spat can drag on longer than your average war, waged with nothing but pleas and promises and verbal, guilt-tipped daggers. It’s funny how long they can last and how quickly they can end. Twenty minutes later, Mycroft’s phone rang again, Greg’s following only about half a beat later. It wasn’t John… well… not directly. See, Mycroft had forgotten why he wanted to go, and Greg had never understood in the first place. Now, though? Suddenly, everyone was on the same page, and ‘attempted’ had never before sounded so beautiful.

***

It was after 5:17am when Mycroft and Greg arrived at the hospital. One wearing a mask of professionalism, the other a mask of concern, but both men were simply trying their very hardest to disguise what was really just guilt. Greg squeezed Mycroft’s hand and left him in front of the door to John’s room. No good would come of Greg going in, never mind he needed to be taking statements and filling out paperwork.

With a deep breath and the turn of a knob, a very sullen Mycroft greeted a barely-John-Watson. Drooping eyelids, an interminable frown, angry red ligature marks across his neck… all marks of a man lost.

“What d’you want?” John rasped, clutching his abused throat.

“I was worried.” Mycroft crossed to the bed and loomed near the rail.

“Wurried,” John scoffed. “S’more like pity, an’ I dun want yer pity.” If drunk wasn’t bad enough, now he was drugged too. The poor man was barely even conscious.

Mycroft took a seat on the bed and cradled John’s hand in his own. “Of all the things I feel right now, pity isn’t one of them. Of that, I can assure you.” He absently drew figure-eights with his thumb between John’s knuckles. “Rest now.”

John’s lids had already fallen shut before Mycroft spoke his last syllable. He quickly scrawled a note and laid it on John’s chest, a limp hand holding it in place. “Life’s about to come at you faster than you can imagine,” he whispered to his sleeping ex-lover.

Then, one last thing, the thing he was most loath to do:

_Your soldier nearly died tonight. Safe or not, it’s time to come home. –MH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of the story is from John's POV. So... be prepared for the POV switch in chapter 10.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all satisfied with the ending. I don't even know anymore.

John awoke to the familiar but unexpected sensation of paper crumpling beneath his fingertips. A scrap of a note left on his chest, exquisite penmanship inked across it. It read only two words: _Sherlock lives._

His stomach flipped, his chest tightening. The handwriting was Mycroft’s, it was obviously Mycroft’s. But as much as John couldn’t imagine him lying about such a thing, he found it even harder to believe the words could be true. And the outrage of having it kept from him for so long? The way he suffered, the way Mycroft _watched_ him suffer. How fucking dare he keep such information to himself? How fucking dare he… just… well… _how fucking dare he_ (in general)?

 _Breathe, John… breathe._ His inner voice spoke loud and clear. Of course it did, because he hadn’t taken a single breath since he saw the note, and his body finally realized such behaviour would kill him. Sure, it let him try in earnest earlier with Sherlock’s scarf wrapped into a makeshift noose, but now breathing was suddenly important again? Go figure!

He sucked in a deep, ragged breath and looked at the paper again, because maybe he’d misread it. You can misread two words, right? You can if you think they’re telling you that your best friend, your flat mate, the unspoken love of your life is still alive despite having seen him splatted against the pavement. How can a man without a pulse live? John was a doctor, and a damn good one at that. He knew a dead body when he saw one, and Sherlock was dead. Wasn’t he?

“But I’m not,” he heard from the doorway.

And then a ghost stood before him, a ghost with the cheekbones of a god and the lips of an angel and a voice like raw silk. A goddamn apparition, all flesh and bone before his eyes. And how? “You’re dead.” They were the only words he could manage.

“But I’m not,” Sherlock repeated, slowly approaching the bed. “I hear you nearly were. Much closer than I, I should say.”

“Don’t!” John didn’t know what exactly he was telling Sherlock not to do, only that he _really_ didn’t want him to do it… whatever _it_ was.

Sherlock stopped and offered a pale, shaking hand. “Don’t what?” His voice was barely a whisper.

“I… I don’t know.” John cautiously took it, inspected it, brought it to his face, and kissed the palm.

“John, I—”

“Oh, god! I shagged your brother!” The exclamation came with the quick release of that same hand, a sudden realization of what had happened for so many months after Sherlock’s ‘death.’

“I know.”

“I treated him horrib—” John quirked an eyebrow. “Wait. You know? How the bloody hell do you know?”

“I asked him to do it, as a favour to me.”

“A favour? What kind of fucking favour is that? Jesus, Sherlock. That’s not a favour you ask of someone. How is that a favour?”

“He was reluctant at first,” Sherlock admitted, “but I wanted you cared for, even if it was...”

“Was?” John prayed he might continue the sentence, wanted desperately to know exactly how much Sherlock knew.

“Nothing. Let’s talk about you. You always liked talking about you.”

“No, goddammit. Was what?”

“Fine!” Sherlock paced, scrubbing his palms against his temples. “It was… difficult… for me.”

“Why? What did he tell you?”

“What? Nothing. Why?”

“Don’t lie to me, Sherlock. What did Mycroft tell you? Why was he reluctant? Just say it.”

“But… why?”

“Because I can’t!” The words swelled in John’s chest, crept up his throat, and exploded from his mouth before he could stop them. “Fuck.” His voice fell. “I need you to say it, because… I can’t.”

And within seconds, Sherlock was on the bed, straddling John’s knees. His eyes searching for something in John’s face and his fingers stroking the crimson streaks on John’s neck, he spoke softly, “Oh, John. My John.” His thumbs traced collarbones and smoothed over cheeks. “You think it was difficult for me because I don’t reciprocate your feelings. You’re scared to say you love me, because you don’t know what I might say in return.”

“Sherlock, I—”

“Say it, John.” He pressed his forehead hard against John’s. “Just say it. Please?”

“I can’t… I just…”

“Please, John.” Sherlock’s crystalline eyes stole John’s gaze and held it. “Trust me.”

“You lied to me. You pretended you were dead. How am I meant to trust you?”

“To protect you.” Sherlock’s lip quivered. “I lied to protect you. It wasn’t safe.”

“And it is now?”

“No. Of course not… no. But it doesn’t matter now. Some things are more important than safety. You nearly died… nearly killed yourself… _tried_ to kill yourself. And why?”

“I was so alone, Sherlock. You left me so, _so_ alone.”

“You weren’t the only one who suffered.” Sherlock finally broke eye contact. “I just need to know it’s still true. Please. Just tell me.”

“Still tr—” John stumbled over the words. “You’re worried I don’t mean it anymore? Are you joking?”

Raven curls trembled with the weak shake of the detective’s head. “Please.” His voice, barely more than a breath, cracked in his single-syllable plea.

John’s hand gently coaxed Sherlock’s eyes to once again meet his own. “Of course I still mean it. Look at me, at what I’ve done to myself. If I’m not the picture of a man in lo—” The word caught in his throat until he coughed it loose. “—of a man in love, I don’t know who is.”

“Say it. You still didn’t say it.”

“Alright, fine. I love you.”

John had only barely gotten the last word out before Sherlock’s lips were pressed against his. But despite a near-crushing force, the kiss was still timid, exploratory. It felt like the sort of kiss you offer someone when you can’t be sure if they’ll kiss you back. But John would, and with his fingers threaded into Sherlock’s curls, he did. And that’s when everything became frantic, a whirlwind of lips and tongues and teeth… hot breath panted between eager, inviting mouths.

And finally, as their lips parted, Sherlock’s answer came in words rather than actions. “I love you, too.”

That was the moment John knew everything would be fine, everything _was_ fine. But knowing doesn’t equate to being, and everything _wasn’t_ fine.  Because the flat, once theirs, had become only John’s. It was the place where he wallowed and drank and cried. It was the place where Sherlock’s ghost haunted him, a ghost that never could have been.  And John’s urge to drink himself into oblivion didn’t go away. The visions he’d seen for months were now real, and the line between his delusions and reality was legitimately blurring. What if the whole thing was just another delusion? Sherlock was dead. He was bloody well dead. And beyond that kiss, they didn’t touch. They barely spoke. There was no further tangible proof that Sherlock was anything more than the vision of a very mad man. Because they knew how to be friends, colleagues, and flat mates, but that was before. They hadn’t a clue how to be… well… whatever they were now. Strangers, it seemed… strangers in love.

The only evidence that Sherlock was real was the look in his eyes, the few times John made eye contact. His all-knowing eyes swirled now with guilt, but for what? For leaving? Surely he knew he was forgiven… mostly. The tension between them loomed like a thick, dense fog throughout the flat, and it all came to a head when Mycroft called… because he called _John_.

“What is the meaning of this?” Mycroft’s voice bellowed angrily over the line.

“That’s quite a greeting,” John snorted. “Meaning of what exactly?”

“You and that bloody frustrating brother of mine. I’d never have called him home if I’d known nothing good would come of it.”

John walked briskly to the loo and slammed the door. “What do you expect me to do? What exactly should I be doing?”

“Not my division, Dr. Watson. Sort it out.”

“Not my division?” John scoffed. “You’ve been spending far too much time with Lestrade.”

“You’d do well to keep your mouth shut regarding my relationship with Gregory. I’m trying to help you here, which is substantially more than you deserve all things considered.”

“Why are you so interested in this anyway? What’s it to you?”

“My brother… well… when he’s not on his game, he gets sloppy. And his sloppiness, now more than ever, stands to get us all killed. So, unless you’d like to continue this conversation in hell, I suggest you sort it.”

Before John could answer, the line went dead at his ear. Was Mycroft serious? Could it really get them all killed? Just how dangerous was his newly leased life?  If things were that dire, Sherlock certainly wasn’t letting on. And it was settled. It was no longer safe to play the game they’d been playing.

When John exited the loo, he nearly ran face-first into Sherlock’s shoulder. The subsequent thud was the sound of one very surprised detective being shoved into one very unforgiving wall.

“What are you doing, John?”

“Well, that’s one thing settled. Hallucinations don’t thud.”

“I’m not a hallucination.” Sherlock wriggled against John’s body which was pinning him to the wall. “What’s gotten into you?”

“What’s gotten in to me? What’s gotten into you? We’ve hardly spoken, and this… _this_ is the most we’ve touched. What’s happening here?”

“I often go without speak—”

“Not with me, Sherlock. Just stop it. Talk to me.”

Sherlock wriggled again until John gave him room to breathe. “I just… know too much.”

“You always do.”

“About the time I was away.”

“So, what?”

“I spoke to Lestrade... about Mycroft… and… you.”

John immediately backed away. “So, that’s it then? You know how I treated your bro—”

“As much as Mycroft and I don’t see eye to eye, I do care for him on some level, and—”

“And you know what an incredible prick I was to him, and you hate me for it. Well, rightfully so. At least I kn—”

“What? No.”

“No?”

“You were, yes. I mean, I heard. But Lestrade assures me that Mycroft has forgiven you, that he understands. I don’t think he’s particularly fond of the speed of my brother’s forgiveness in this case, but he specifically asked me not to hold it against you, and I don’t.”

“Then, what?”

“John… you’re the best man I’ve ever known… and the level of trauma it would take to twist you into the man he described to me…” Sherlock’s words broke off.

“I didn’t mean—”

“I persuaded an emotionally repressed man, my own brother, to enter into and stay involved in a frankly abusive relationship with the man I loved… the remarkable, kind, caring man whom I transformed into a verbally abusive, sadistic drunk. I put him in a situation where he was guaranteed to get hurt, and I put you in the position to do the most harm you could. Then, when you couldn’t stand the person you’d become, you tried to take your life. The bravest, most honourable man I’ve ever met tried to kill himself over what I’d done to him and still saw fit to love me anyway. How am I meant to speak to you? To touch you? To let you love me?”

“This isn’t up to you, Sherlock. It’s not in your control. You don’t get to decide how I feel or who I love. And ignoring me certainly isn’t helping. I don’t love you less, I only doubt myself more… I feel crazy all over again. I feel like everything in the hospital never happened, like I imagined it, imagined _you_. The grand declarations, the kiss… they all seem like some drug-induced dream. If you don’t want this, it’s fine. But I need to kno—”

There is no better way to interrupt a rant than with a kiss, and this one was hard and full of intention. Their feet carried them from hall to bedroom without the necessity of thought or decision, and they fell onto Sherlock’s bed in a tangle of limbs. Greedy hands scrambled for purchase on fabric draped where only skin should be, and so began tugging and tearing and frantic disrobing until only that same skin remained. The only thing left between them was the heat from their bodies and the pulsing of their cocks, a neglected Army doctor writhing in the lap of an inexperienced genius, and then came the command, “Fuck me.” And the command came from John.

A disoriented Sherlock stared back, eyes blank with ignorance. Because for all the subjects on which Sherlock was an expert, sex clearly was not one of them. The work would be John’s, and that work would be well worth doing. In a split second, John was off the bed and dragging Sherlock behind, stumbling up the stairs to his room and settling on his own mattress.

He straddled the hips of a detective laid prone and stretched to reach for a small bottle from his nightstand drawer. The friction of his prick dragging along sweat-slick abs was nearly more than he could take, because he wanted and had been wanting far too much for far too long. The cool of the lube against his fingers was quickly wicked away by intense warmth as he immediately pressed two inside himself. Sure, it lacked finesse, but a moment like this was no time for slow deliberation. The burn of a less-than-optimal stretch still paled in comparison to the pain of being so close and yet unsated.

John’s hips rolled hard against his own hand as he gathered up the leaking mess of his and Sherlock’s erections in the other. Everything was rough and fevered and passionate and desperate, but then he looked at Sherlock’s face. Only a hint of lust bore through a cloud of absolute terror, and that’s what brought John back ‘round. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_. It was like he didn’t know how to be considerate when mixing sex and a Holmes, and this was even more. It wasn’t just mixing sex and a Holmes, it was mixing love and a Holmes… a very confused, very out of sorts, very inexperienced Holmes.

Fingers withdrawn and cocks unhanded, John collapsed next to Sherlock on the bed, his head resting on the detective’s shoulder. “You’ve not a clue about any of this, do you?”

Sherlock shook his head in silent reply.

“It’s okay.”

“You’re not mad or upset with me?”

“Nah. ‘Course not. I just keep forgetting that you’re not going anywhere this time.”

Sherlock squirmed and rearranged himself to face John, his thumb tracing the contours of John’s lips. “Never. I promise I’ll never do that to you again.”

“Good. Then we’ve all the time in the world, haven’t we?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“We can wait a while if you like… I mean, for _this_.”

“That seems wholly unnecessary. I’m certainly not opposed to it, but perhaps we could start a bit… slower?”

John scooted closer, his nose nudging at the tip of Sherlock’s followed by a very gentle kiss. “Slow as you like, love.”

Forty-three minutes later and for the first time in either of their lives, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes made love. It was soft and loving and caring and kind, and most of all, it was no one else’s business. It didn’t matter who touched what, if Tab A went into Slot B or vice versa, or if it happened one time or ten… or even three and a half, stopping short of four when one brilliant Dr. Watson realized the necessity of walking the next day.

Sherlock was back and John was made whole once again… whole in a way he’d never before been. All sins were forgiven, all slates wiped clean, and the world burned brighter than ever before. They wouldn’t be safe, not for a while… maybe not ever, but a life lived in fear far exceeds a life only half lived. And when two dead men find love in the most unexpected of places, in one another’s arms, a life half lived simply will not do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it... I was going porny (clearly), but then it felt wrong. I don't know. I couldn't figure out what was wrong, and then I realized. It just wasn't scene we were meant to see. It wasn't our business. Sorry if that's disappointing. I hope I didn't let you all down after 20,000 words. Please let me know what you think! <3
> 
> **I'll check for mistakes later... I don't have time at the moment! SORRY!**

**Author's Note:**

> This hasn't been beta'd, and it's 2:30am. Sorry if there was anything funky...


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